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CUT-FLOWERS: 


COLLECTION  OF  POEMS. 


BY 


MRS.  D.  ELLEN  GOODMAN  SHEPARD. 


EDITED  BY  J.  G.  HOLLAND. 


SPRINGFIELD  : 

PUBLISHED  BY  BESSEY  &  CO. 

M  DCCC  LIV. 


SAMUEL  BOWLES  &  COMPANY,  PRINTERS, 
SPRINGFIELD,  MASS. 


IN   ACCORDANCE 

WITH  THE 

isl)   of  tlje   JUipartdr, 

AND  AS  A 

DYING  MEMORIAL  OF  HEE  FILIAL  AFFECTION, 
THIS    VOLUME 

IS     DEDICATED    TO    HER 

MOTHER. 


IN    MEMORIAM. 


Love  in  her  heart,  and  song  upon  her  lip  — 
A  daughter,  friend,  and  wife  — 
She  lived  a  beauteous  life, 
And  love  and  song  shall  bless  her  in  her  sleep. 
The  flowers  whose  language  she  iaterpreted, 
The  delicate  airs,  calm  eves,  and  starry  skies 
That  touched  so  sweetly  her  chaste  sympathies, 
And  all  the  grieving  souls  she  comforted, 
Will  bathe  in  separate  sorrows  the  dear  mound, 
Where  heart  and  harp  lie  silent  and  profound. 
Oh,  Woman !  all  the  songs  thou  left  to  us 
We  will  preserve  for  thee,  in  grateful  love ; 
Give  thou  return  of  our  affection  thus, 
And  keep  for  us  the  songs  thou  sing'st  above! 


ELLEN. 

BY   SARAH  J.    C.  WHITTLESEY. 


They  told  me  thou  wast  dead ! 

And  I  said  I  would  not  grieve, 
But  the  stars  came  softly  out  o'erhead, 

And  slanted  thro'  the  eve; 
And  round  our  quiet  cot, 

We  heard  the  night-winds  sweep, 
Then,  dear  departed,  I  forgot 

I  said  I  would  not  weep ! 

They  told  me  thou  wast  laid 

Down  in  the  peaceful  dell, 
Beneath  the  moaning  maple  shade, 

You  loved  in  life  so  well ; 
I  said  I  would  not  mourn, 

Since  all  the  past  was  vain, 
Till  musing  round  the  silent  urn, 

Ah !  I  forgot  again ! 

They  tell  me  thou  hast  gone 

To  fairer  worlds  on  high, 
Where  Summer's  close  comes  never  ont 

Nor  buds  in  darkness  die. 
The  eve  is  blue  and  still, 

The  wind  is  mild  and  free, 
I'm  leaning  on  the  window-sill, 

And  waiting,  love,  for  thee. 

I  wonder  if  those  eyes  — 

In  life  so  dark  and  bright- 
Are  looking  from  the  starry  skies, 

Down  in  my  own  to-night; 
Oh !  guard  me  from  afar, 

From  out  the  heaven's  fold, 
Like  yonder  tiny,  burning  star, 

That  dots  the  blue  with  gold. 

Be  like  that  lovely  ray 

Thro'  all  of  this  heart's  gloom, 
And  light  me,  angel,  down  the  way 

That  slopes  into  the  tomb  ; 
And  when  life's  trembling  dove, 

The  flood  of  death  flies  o'er, 
Come  to  the  water's  dark  edge,  love, 

And  meet  me  on  the  shore ! 
Alexandria,  Va. 

1* 


PREFACE. 


A  CUP  of  flowers,  cut  from  mossy  banks  and  grassy 
borders,  with  their  stems  drawing  life  from  affection's  dew, 
is  its  own  best  apology,  while  the  elaborately  arranged 
bouquet  provokes  criticism  and  challenges  comparison. 
The  poems  contained  in  this  volume  have  nearly  all 
appeared  in  the  periodicals  of  the  day.  They  were,  when 
uttered,  the  expression  of  a  harmonious  and  sympathetic 
nature,  touched  to  the  necessity  of  song  by  appeals  to  its 
sensibility  from  the  Spirit  of  Beauty,  the  Spirit  of  Love,  the 
Spirit  of  Humanity,  and  the  Spirit  of  Christianity.  The 
unambitious  soul  in  which  they  had  their  birth  has  passed 
away  ;  the  gentle  hand  that  penned  them  lies  folded  with 
its  fellow  over  a  silent  heart ;  but  the  literary  flowers  thus 
planted  by  the  wayside  still  smile  and  blossom,  and  a  com 
bination  of  their  fragrance  in  a  chosen  collection  is  deemed 
a  fitting  tribute  to  the  memory  of  her  who  trained  and 
nourished  them,  and  an  appropriate  expression  of  the 

affection  of  the  multitude  of  friends  she  left  behind  her. 

% 

THE    EDITOR. 


CONTENTS. 


OBITUARY  AND    INTRODUCTORY, 9 

TO  THE  RIVER  CONNECTICUT, 13 

THE  LAMENT, 19 

WHERE  DOTH  THY  SPIRIT  DWELL  ? 21 

OH,  TELL  ME  NOT  !  SONG, .23 

THE  YOUNG  MISSIONARY, 25 

TO  AN  OLD  MAN, 29 

THE  MAY  QUEEN,           .                  33 

FAVORITE  WILD  FLOWERS, 35 

MORNING  IN  JUNE,         .         .        .         .                          .         .  39 

STANZAS, 42 

TO  AN  OLD  FRIEND, .  45 

SWEET  MEMORIES, 47 

TO  A  SOUTHERN  POETESS, 50 

THE  CAPTIVE  EXILE'S  DREAM, 54 

THE  MOTHER'S  GIFT, 60 

KING  DEATH  AND  THE  MAIDEN, 64 

BY-GONE  DAYS, 67 

MORNING  IN  OCTOBER. 73 

IDA'S  GRAVE, 76 

MY  PRAYER, 79 

THE  FATHER  TO  HIS  MOTHERLESS  CHILDREN,     ....  83 


TO  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE 


THE  DYING  STUDENT, 89 

«. 

SOFTLY  THE  MORNING  LIGHT — SONG, 93 

A  DIRGE, 95 


CONTENTS. 


THE  SNOW,        ....  ...... 

THE  EXILE'S  LAMENT,    ........ 

WE  HAVE    MET,  .........        103 

THE  BRIDE'S  ADIEU  TO  HER  MOTHER,       .....          106 

THE  BLIND   GIRL,        .........        109 

:  .  . 


TO  ALICE,      .......  :  . 

SONG  OF  SPRING,        ...  ......        116 

110 
TO  LIZZIE,      .......... 

191 
TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD,          ........        L*>i 

THE  YOUNG  WIFE,  ........ 

19fi 
WALOLULA  -  A  TALE,          .  .  ..... 

THE  DESERTED  WIFE  TO  HER  MOTHER,       .....  145 

TO  DICK,  MY  CANARY  BIRD,  .....       .     •  •        I48 

THE  BANISHED  WIFE'S  APPEAL,          ...... 


THE  BREATH  OF  SPRING,  ....... 


THE  HOPES  OF  EARTH,          ........ 

1  SO 
THE  WOODS,  ........ 

TO  A  LOCK  OF  HAIR,  ........        162 

FLOWERS  ON  THE    GRAVE,         .       .     ...... 

DIRGE  FOR  THE  BEAUTIFUL,         .....  '  I66 


OBITUARY  AND  INTRODUCTORY. 


DOLLY  ELLEN  RING  was  the  second  daughter  of  JESSE 
and  KEZIAH  RING,  and  was  bom  in  Springfield,  Mass,, 
March  21st,  1820.  At  the  age  of  thirteen,  she  became  the 
adopted  daughter  of  JOEL  and  DOLLY  BROWN,  in  the  same 
place.  November  14th,  1844,  she  was  married  to  HASKELL 
C.  GOODMAN,  with  whom  she  lived  but  about  eight  months, 
he  dying  on  the  24th  of  July,  1845.  On  the  5th  of  May, 
1852,  she  was  re-married,  becoming  the  wife  of  JAMES  T. 
SHEPARD.  On  the  3d  of  February,  1853,  she  died,  at  the  age 
of  32,  and  her  remains  lie  in  the  Springfield  Cemetery, — a 
beautiful  spot  which  her  own  pen  has  rendered  doubly 
attractive,  and  where  she  can  sleep  sweetly  among  her  own 
dreams.  A  brief  record !  but  covering  a  world  of  bitter 
disappointment,  holy  aspiration,  single-hearted  love,  tender 
and  out-reaching  sympathy,  untiring  industry,  and  numberless 
offices  of  affection  and  kindness,  growing  out  of  the  hallowed 
relations  of  daughter  and  wife — relations  which,  in  her  appre 
ciation,  were  fraught  with  a  tenderness  so  deep  and  touching 
that  they  became  invested  with  the  profoundest  romance  of 
her  nature. 

At  an  early  age,  the  subject  of  this  sketch  exhibited  a 
remarkable  taste  for  drawing  and  literary  composition. 
These  tastes  received  development  in  a  careful  education, 
and  the  wonderful  facility  with  which  she  wrote  is  evidenced 
in  the  large  mass  of  materials  left  in  her  portfolios  and  scrap- 
books.  The  first  of  her  published  compositions  was  written 
for  the  Springfield  Republican,  and  entitled  "Clara  Maywood." 
The  Republican  was  always  a  favorite  medium,  with  her,  for 
the  communication  of  her  thoughts  to  the  public,  but  she 
wrote  largely  for  the  Columbian  Magazine,  Godeifs  Lady's 


10  OBITUARY    AND    INTRODUCTORY. 

Book,  Petersons  Ladies'  Magazine,  Morris  §•  Willis'  Home 
Journal,  Arthur's  Gazette,  the  Southern  Era,  Dollar  Newspaper, 
Aurora  Borealis.  and  other  periodicals.  These  poems  were 
thrown  off  with  great  ease,  among  the  duties  of  the  family 
and  the  school,  and  show  that  "song  was  her  solace,"  and 
numbers  the  language  of  her  thoughts  and  dreams.  There 
is  no  show  of  labor  upon  her  poems.  If  there  appear  to  be 
carelessness  of  expression,  it  is  not  the  carelessness  of  art. 
Her  thoughts  are  first  thoughts — her  emotions  fresh,  and  the 
language  chosen  for  their  expression  is  artless  and  unstudied. 

The  muse  of  Mrs.  Shepard,  though  not  habitually  sad,  was 
usually  so.  To  this  strain  both  her  temperament  and  her 
heart-trials  tended.  The  majority  of  her  published  poems 
were  issued  between  the  dates  of  her  first  and  second  mar 
riage—the  long  widowhood  of  a  loving  nature,  and  an  unfor- 
getful  heart.  A  hearty,  joyous,  exulting  song  she  never  sung. 
She  had  no  language  for  the  wilder  passions,  for  she  never 
felt  their  influence.  Grandeur,  and  storm,  and  ardent  life, 
found  no  mirror  within  her,  and,  therefore,  no  expression. 
Retiring  in  her  tastes,  and  secluded  by  choice  from  the  strifes 
and  tumults  of  society,  her  poems  all  had  their  birth  in  her 
own  private  experience,  and  her  own  sympathies.  That 
experien.ee  had  been  sad,  and  its  memory  was  only  softened 
and  chastened  by  years,  while  it  opened  her  heart  to  the 
bereavements  and  sorrows  of  others  so  broadly,  that  she 
could  never  withhold  the  word  of  comfort  and  sympathy, 
breathed  in  her  best  numbers,  from  those  who  wept  over 
precious  dust,  and  bowed  above  the  grave  of  buried  hopes. 
This  latter  fact  particularly  endeared  her  to  a  multitude  of 
her  acquaintances,  and  it  is  to  be  regretted  that  many  of  her 
poems— poems  really  among  her  best— cannot,  with  propriety, 
be  introduced  in  this  volume,  because  of  their  occasional  and 
personal  nature  and  interest. 

Her  prose  contributions  to  the  periodical  press  were  numer 
ous,  and,  many  of  them,  extended,  consisting  mostly  of  tales 
and  sketches  :  but  her  poetical  productions  illustrate  so  per 
fectly  her  literary  genius,  and  her  peculiar  cast  of  thought 
and  sentiment,  that  one  would  easily  decide  upon  the  identity 


OBITUARY    AND    INTRODUCTORY.  11 

of  authorship  existing  between  the  former  and  the  latter. 
Her  prose  is  all  poetical — teeming  with  soft  and  familiar 
images,  sweet  and  pensive  in  tone,  and  always  illustrative  of 
the  simple  romances  of  the  heart,  or  of  the  sorrows  which 
they  beautify,  chasten,  or  dispel.  In  these,  as  well  as  in  her 
poetical  efforts,  her  velvet-shod  fancy  walked  constantly 
among  dim  old  trees,  and  whispering  leaves  and  rare  and 
beautiful  flowers.  Her  imagination  invested  the  inanimate 
things  around  her  with  human  sympathies,  and  clothed 
humanity  with  the  attributes  of  external  nature  so  perfectly, 
that  she  illustrated  one  with  the  other  with  an  interchangeable 
facility  that  gave  to  her  style  its  worst  characteristic — that  of 
monotony.  Never  going  beyond  her  own  experience  in  one, 
and  her  own  vision  in  the  other,  her  productions  have  not  the 
variety  that  a  more  varied  life  and  a  wider  range  would  have 
given  them.  Yet  all  her  writings,  in  both  fields  of  her  effort, 
and  perhaps  for  the  very  reasons  that  have  been  given, 
touched  the  popular  heart,  and  spoke  to  a  popular  apprecia 
tion,  with  most  fortunate  felicity. 

With  Mrs.  Shepard,  the  simple  romance  of  girlhood  never 
wore  away.  The  relentless  hand  of  grief  could  not  tear  from 
her  eyes  the  veil  whose  colors  clothed  even  the  face  of  grief 
itself  in  ideal  hues.  She  had  a  flower  for  every  weed  of 
mourning — a  bud  of  hope  for  every  sorrow.  The  brow  of 
death  was,  to  her,  invested  with  an  immortal  beauty,  and  the 
unseen  winds  which  lifted  the  damp  curls  that  clustered  upon 
it,  her  fancy  endowed  with  angel  life,  and  heavenly  forms 
and  fingers.  She  lived  and  moved  in  the  companionship  of 
graceful,  gentle,  calm  and  chastened  dreams,  and  yet  these 
dreams  so  walked  hand  in  hand  with  her  daily  duties,  so 
intertwined  themselves  with  all  her  relations,  and  were  so 
indissolubly  associated  with  human  life  and  all  its  objects 
and  pursuits,  that  her  own  life  and  labor,  and  all  thoughts, 
all  events,  all  circumstances,  all  joys,  all  griefs,  and  all 
existence,  were  beautified  through  the  fellowship,  and 
became  dreamlike  to  her  imagination. 

Mrs.  Shepard  wrote  more  for  private  satisfaction  lhan  pub 
lic  praise— more  for  friends  than  fame.  Her  efforts  are  all 


12  OBITUARY   AND     INTRODUCTORY. 

brief  and  unpretending,— drawn  forth  by  some  simple  and 
familiar  object,  some  meet  occasion,  or  some  private  experi 
ence.  Her  poems  are  to  be  judged  by  no  cold  rules  of  art — 
by  no  unyielding  standard  of  criticism,  for  they  were  written 
without  reference  to  such  rules  and  such  a  standard.  They 
sprang  from  the  heart,  and  sought  simply  and  naturally  for  a 
tuneful  expression.  The  form  of  this  expression  was  arrived 
at  through  the  instincts  of  a  tuneful  spirit,  rather  than  any 
rules  of  composition,  or  any  recognized  principles  of  art. 

With  this  brief  obituary  notice  of  one  whose  memory  is 
cherished  among  the  treasures  of  her  native  city,  and  this 
tribute  to  her  life,  and  description  of  her  literary  character, 
the  following  collection  of  her  poems  is  submitted  to  the 
public.  They  are  u  cut-flowers/'  —  unbound  by  a  single 
thread  of  relation,  save  that  of  a  common  origin,  and  brought 
for  the  first  time  into  companionship.  Many  poems  will  be 
missed  from  the  book  which  individuals  would  be  glad  to  see, 
but  the  rules  which  were  deemed  best  to  be  adopted  in  the 
preparation  of  a  work  for  the  public  have  shut  them  out. 

It  is  proper  to  allude  to  the  fact  that  many  of  the  poems 
•collected  in  this  volume  were  written  over  the  signature  of 
^LELIA  MORTIMER" — the  majority  of  their  readers  never 
having  mistrusted  the  identity  of  authorship  existing  between 
them  and  those  published  over  the  writer's  real  signature. 
Both  names  won  a  reputation  which  made  them  current  coin 
in  the  realm  of  periodical  literature. 


POEMS. 


TO   THE  RIVER   CONNECTICUT. 


i. 

How  long  will  thy  murmur 
With  voices  of  Summer 

Mingle  as  now, 
While  the  green  mossy  shore 
Bends  like  a  shadow  o'er 

Thy  shining  brow  ? 
Softly  the  fair  sunlight 
Over  thy  waters  bright 

Throws  its  white  beam  ^ 
Deeply  the  sky  above 
Mirrors  its  eye  of  love 

In  the  ctear  stream ! 


14  TO    THE    RIVER    CONNECTICUT. 

II. 

Through  the  long  years  agone 
Thou  hast  been  floating  ony 

Silent  —  serene  — 
With  the  same  glance  of  light 
Over  thy  wavelets  bright, 

And  banks  of  green. 
Sitting  upon  thy  shore, 
Gazing  thy  water  o'er, 

Musing  and  lone  — 
Can'st  thou  not  to  my  heart 
Softly  some  tale  impart 

Of  ages  gone  ? 

in. 

Ere  the  pale-face  had  come 
From  his  far  distant  home, 

Dauntless  and  brave ; 
Or  the  fair  blue-eyed  girls, 
With  their  light  flowing  curls, 

Smiled  o'er  the  wave  ;  — 
Ere  the  proud  father  bore 
To  a  lone,  stranger  shore 

Youth's  unbent  form, 
That  o'er  the  infant  brow 
Freedom's  own  breath  might  blow, 

Joyous  and  warm ; 


TO    THE    RIYER    CONNECTICUT.  15 

IV. 

Ere  the  fond  mother  gave 
From  the  cold,  cheerless  wave 

Her  parting  sigh 
For  her  fair  girlhood's  home, 
Never  again  to  roam 

'Neath  its  blue  sky  ;  — 
In  the  deep  forest's  shade 
Thy  gentle  waters  played 

With  the  pure  light, 
Streaming  with  glance  of  love 
Through  wreathing  bows  above, 

Golden  and  bright. 

v. 

Meek  flowerets,  lulled  to  rest, 
Rocked  on  thy  heaving  breast, 

Closed  their  blue  eyes, 
Dreaming  all  pleasant  dreams, 
Bathing  in  golden  beams 

From  the  fair  skies. 
And  the  dark  Indian  maid 
Through  the  deep  forest-shade 

Glided  along, 
Twining  the  blossoms  fair 
In  her  long,  flowing  hair, 

Trilling  a  song. 


16  TO    THE    RIVER    CONNECTICUT. 


VI. 

Over  thy  waves  of  blue 
Floated  her  frail  canoe, 

Graceful  and  light ; 
To  the  fair  azure  skies 
Looked  up  her  flashing  eyes, 

Dark-i ringed  and  bright. 
In  the  pure  white-winged  cloud, 
In  the  heaven's  gloomy  shroud, 

Or  the  clear  gem 
Looking  with  eye  of  love 
From  the  fair  host  above  — 

Night's  diadem  — 

VII. 

In  the  meek  wild-flower's  eye, 
Or  the  wind's  solemn  sigh, 

Wafting  its  breath ; 
In  her  own  guileless  heart, 
Where  free  from  sinful  art 

Love  lived  till  death  ;  — 
Read  the  dear  maiden  there 
Of  the  Great  Spirit's  care  ? 

Saw  she  his  face  ? 
Heard  she  his  whisper  low 
In  the  calm  streamlet's  flow, 

Blessing  her  race  ? 


TO    THE    RIVER    CONNECTICUT.  17 

VIIL 

Ages  with  silent  tread 
Onward  their  course  have  sped, 

Bearing  the  brave  — 
Bearing  the  young  and  gay, 
From  thy  fair  shores  away, 

To  the  lone  grave. 
Long  since  the  Indian  maids 
Went  from  their  forest-shades 

To  a  far  home,  — 
No  more  with  glances  bright 
Over  these  waves  of  light 

Gaily  to  come. 

IX. 

And  the  proud  chief —  for  him 
Grew  the  bright  sun  so  dim  — 

Life's  beacon  star  — 
Palely  he  fell  asleep, 
Not  one  his  fate  to  weep, 

Near  or  afar. 

Now  forms  of  light  and  grace, 
Now  beauty's  witching  face 

Bend  from  thy  shore, 
Tones  ever  blithe  and  free 
Float  in  their  mirth  and  glee 

Thy  waters  o'er. 
2* 


18  TO    THE    RIVER    CONNECTICUT. 

X. 

River  !     How  long  shall  gleam 
'Neath  the  sun's  golden  beam 

Thy  waters  fair  ? 
How  long  the  flowerets  stoop, 
And  the  pale  lilies  droop, 

In  beauty  there  ? 
Soon  shall  the  eyes  that  now 
Gaze  on  thy  shining  brow, 

Loveful  and  bright,  — 
Soon  shall  these  tones  of  mirth, 
Trembling  in  music  forth, 

Joyful  and  light ;  — 

XI. 

Soon  hands  that  twine  the  flowers, 
Plucked  from  thy  shady  bowers 

For  love's  warm  breast,  — 
Feet  that  with  tread  of  fawn 
At  Summer's  rosy  dawn 

Thy  banks  have  prest  — 
Soon  all  shall  pass  away  : 
Still  will  the  sunlight  play 

Warmly  and  bright 
Upon  thy  flowing  stream, 
Smiling  with  silvery  beam, 

And  glance  of  light. 


THE   LAMENT. 


The  ice  is  on  his  brow !     My  hand  hath  lain 

Upon  its  polished  surface  long,  to  feel 
The  warm  life-blood  come  creeping  back  again  : 

And  I  have  watched  to  see  the  faint  flush  steal 
Over  his  marble  cheek :  to  mark  the  lid 

That  droops  so  coldly  o'er  the  azure  eyes  — 
Where  such  a  world  of  noble  love  lies  hid — 

In  this  full,  radiant  burst  of  glory  rise ! 
Yes  —  I  have  raised  the  curtain,  that  the  light 

From  the  far  Eastern  skies,  all  bathed  in  gold, 
May  rest  upon  his  face  —  a  halo  bright  — 

And  touch  with  gentle  warmth  his  forehead  cold. 


20  THE     LAMENT. 

II. 

How  the  s*oft  flood  creeps  to  his  raven  hair 

Tinging  its  blackness  with  a  purple  glow, 
As  the  rich  masses  fall  so  darkly  where 

The  shades  are  mingling  with  his  brow's  pure  snow ! 
How  oft  these  curls  have  round  my  fingers  twined  — 

Tossing  and  waving  in  the  Summer  breeze  ; 
Now  drooping  heavily,  my  soul  can  find 

No  life  'mid  shadows  deep  and  dark  as  these. 
No  life  !     The  ice  is  creeping  round  my  heart  — 

I  feel  a  cold  hand  press  its  broken  strings : 
A  low  voice  whispers  that  not  long  we  part  — 

Oh,  to  my  soul  what  joy  the  whisper  brings  ! 

in. 

Beloved  one !     I  can  see  an  angel's  wings 

Sweeping  across  the  far  etherial  blue  — 
Snow-white  —  except  where  radiant  beauty  flings 

Across  their  edge  a  tinge  of  golden  hue. 
On  toward  the  rising  sun  the  winglets  soar, 

Bearing  thy  soul  into  the  realms  of  day  ; 
There  'mid  the  sinless  seraphs  evermore 

Thy  happy  feet  and  shining  form  shall  stray. 
Thy  brow  shall  wear  a  wreath  of  burning  gold, 

Thy  fingers  shall  strike  harp-chords,  waking  notes 
More  exquisite  than  mortal  tongue  hath  told,  — 

Pure  as  thy  soul  that  in  yon  ether  floats ! 


WHERE  DOTH  THY   SPIRIT  DWELL? 


Where,  oh  !  where  doth  thy  spirit  dwell  ? 
By  its  home  in  the  bosom  of  yonder  star 
That  is  shedding  its  silvery  beams  afar  ? 
Does  it  wander  among  the  fadeless  flowers 
Which  grace  with  their  beauty  its  lovely  bowers  ? 
Does  it  bask  in  the  light  of  its  cloudless  skies  ? 
Is  it  fanned  by  its  zephyrs  which  softly  rise  ? 

Is  thy  home  in  that  star  ?     Oh,  tell ! 


Where,  oh  where,  is  the  loved  one  now  ?  — 
In  the  cold,  dark  grave  we  have  laid  his  head, 
And  planted  a  rose-tree  over  his  bed ; 
And  the  Autumn  breeze,  with  its  sad,  soft  sound, 
Sweeps  tremblingly  over  the  verdant  mound, 
And  the  murmuring  stream  that  is  gliding  by 
Breathes  forth  its  meaning  and  mournful  sigh  — 

A  requiem  plaintive  and  low. 


22  WHERE    DOTH    THY    SPIRIT    DWELL  ? 

But  where,  oh  where  doth  the  spirit  rest  ? 
It  is  not  chained  by  the  cheerless  tomb ; 
It  doth  not  dwell  in  its  deepening  gloom. 
It  is  far  away  in  a  home  on  high, 
Where  eyes  never  weep  and  hearts  never  sigh, 
Where  the  flowers  of  happiness  never  fade, 
In  a  mansion  of  bliss,  by  hands  not  made  — 

Thy  home  is  the  land  of  the  blest. 


OH,  TELL  ME  NOT.  —  SONG. 


Oh  tell  me  not  of  an  azure  eye 

With  its  glances  soft  and  meek  ; 
Nor  of  golden  curls  that  gracefully 

Wave  over  the  marble  cheek  ! 
Oh  tell  me  not  of  a  step  as  free 

As  that  of  the  bounding  hare, 
Of  a  laugh  that  echoes  joyously, 

And  a  bosom  free  from  care  ! 


Oh  tell  me  not  of  a  lustrous  eye, 

With  its  depth  of  changing  light, 
And  of  ringlets  waving  gaily  by 

As  dark  as  the  shades  of  night ! 
Oh  tell  me  not  of  a  snowy  brow, 

And  a  lip  of  coral  dye  — 
Of  a  voice  as  softly  sweet  and  low 

As  a  Summer  zephyr's  sigh  ! 


24  OH,    TELL    ME    NOT. SONG. 

The  maid  /  love  has  an  eye  of  gray, 

With  a  glance  as  wild  and  bright 
As  the  rich  brown  curls,  that  float  away 

From  her  forehead,  pure  and  white. 
When  from  the  depths  of  her  gushing  soul 

The  quivering  song  is  stirred, 
The  soft  strains  over  the  hushed  heart  roll 

Like  the  music  of  a  bird. 

The  maid  I  love  has  a  smile  and  word 

Of  endearment  sweet  for  all ; 
No  note  of  scorn  has  ever  been  heard 

From  her  ruby  lips  to  fall. 
She  is  blithe  and  gladsome  as  a  child, 

With  a  bosom  light  and  gay ; 
And  her  home  is  in  the  woodland  wild 

Far  over  the  hills  away. 


THE  YOUNG  MISSIONARY. 


She  was  a  fair,  pale  girl  with  mild,  soft  eyes, 
Shaded  by  heavy  lashes,  and  a  cheek 
Of  lily  pureness ;  and  upon  her  brow  — 
That  gleamed  beneath  the  braids  of  golden  brown  — 
Were  rich  intelligence  and  holy  thought ; 
And  she  had  been  by  the  deserted  hearth 
Of  her  poor  widowed  mother,  like  a  ray 
Of  silver  sunlight,  piercing  through  a  cloud. 
Yet,  when  the  roses  bloomed  about  the  door, 
And  the  bright  birds  poured  forth  their  low,  sweet  strains. 
And  the  blue  skies  smiled  lovingly  o'er  all  — 
The  dear  girl  bowed  her  head  upon  the  breast 
Where  oft  it  had  been  pillowed,  and  through  tears 
Of  mingled  grief  and  gladness,  fondly  gazed 
On  the  beloved,  mild  and  gentle  face, 
That  ever,  through  her  hours  of  joy  and  grief, 
Had  hovered  over  her.     And  the  pale  hand 
8 


26  THE  YOUNG  MISSIONARY. 

Of  that  meek  mother  lingered  'inid  her  curls, 
And  the  thin  lips  upon  her  brow  ;  and  sighs 
Broke  the  hushed  stillness  of  the  hour.     Blessings 
Were  breathed  above  the  bended  head,  and  there, 
With  the  chosen  one  beside  her,  she  went  forth 
To  labor  in  a  stranger  land,  and  die 
Beneath  the  warm,  bright  sun  of  Ada's  skies. 


Evening  drew  on  — the  quiet,  holy  eve  — 
And  its  first  star  was  gleaming  in  the  sky, 
Golden  and  bright,  amid  the  blue  expanse. 
They  took  her  out  amid  the  tall  palm-trees, 
And  let  the  heavy,  fragrant  air  blow  back 
From  her  transparent  brow  its  wealth  of  curls, 
And  with  its  fairy  fingers  touch  her  cheek, 
Bringing  a  rose-like  luster  to  its  pure 
And  pearly  whiteness.     And,  as  she  gazed  around,. 
A  beautiful  smile  came  to  her  deep  eyes, 
And  parted  her  thin  lips  ;  while  soft  and  low 
Came  up  her  music-tones  like  the  faint  breath 
Of  lute-strings,  swept  by  snowy  wings ;. — 

"  To  look  my  last 
Upon  thy  holy  brow,  my  love, 

As  gathering  fast 
These  tears  thy  deep  affection  prove  : 


THE  YOUNG  MISSIONARY.  27 

To  see  this  band 
Of  dark-browed  children  meekly  press 

My  drooping  hand, 
And  weep  in  their  deep  tenderness : 


41  To  lay  my  brow 
And  fevered  cheek  upon  thy  breast, 

And  thus  to  know 
That  to  its  happy,  peaceful  rest 

My  soul  must  wing 
Its  way  —  a  sadness  to  my  heart 

The  thought  might  bring, 
With  thee  and  these  so  soon  to  part. 


"But  there  are  flowers 
In  that  far  land  of  cloudless  skies, 

Not  such  as  ours 
That  fade  and  droop,  no  more  to  rise ; 

And  golden  beams 
Are  trembling  in  the  fragrant  air, 

And  sunlight  gleams, 
And  glorious  beauty  everywhere. 


28  THE  YOUNG  MISSIONARY. 

"  And  we  shall  meet  — 
Meet  there,  my  love,  to  part  no  more ; 

And  low  and  sweet, 
My  mother's  voice  upon  that  shore 

Will  softly  come, 
And  I  shall  see  her  own  dear  eyes 

As,  in  my  home, 
They  beamed  like  light  from  Summer  skies. 


"Tis  well  to  die 
Here  on  this  pleasant  eventide  — 

Thus  happily 
To  pass  from  thy  dear,  faithful  side : 

But  bear  thou  up, 
And  humbly  kiss  the  chastening  rod  ; 

This  bitter  cup 
Will  draw  thee  nearer  to  thy  God. " 


TO  AN  OLD  MAN. 


I  am  looking  on  thy  brow. 

With  its  furrows  broad  and  deep ; 
At  the  thin  and  silver  locks 

That  across  it  gently  sweep; 
And  I  think  of  other  days, 

When  iipon  that  forehead  fair, 
Waved  more  gracefully  and  free 

Curls  of  soft  and  silken  hair. 


As  I  gaze  upon  thy  eye, 

Sunken,  dull,  but  sweetly  mild 
Soft  and  blue  as  Summer  sky, 

And  with  love  and  meekness  filled — 
Of  thy  youthful  days  I  dream, 

When  its  glance  was  wild  and  bright 
As  the  sunlight  on  a  stream, 

Or  the  starry  eyes  of  night 
3* 


30  TO  AN  OLD  MAN. 

Pale  and  sunken  is  thy  cheek, 
And  thy  lips  are  thin  and  white, — 

Trembling  ever  when  they  speak, 
Like  an  aspen  in  the  night. 

I  am  thinking  of  the  time 
When  the  rose  was  blooming  there  : 

Once  the  glow  of  youthful  prime 
Spread  o'er  all  thy  features  fair. 


And  thy  feet  that  totter  now 

Underneath  the  weight  they  bear, 
Once,  upon  the  green  hill's  brow, 

Roamed  as  free  as  Summer  air. 
Proud  and  careless  was  thy  tread — 

As  a  wild  deer's  o'er  the  vale  — 
Crushing  down  the  lily's  head, 

And  the  violet  blue  and  pale. 


Sitting  at  the  gate  of  death, 

With  a  sweet  light  on  thy  brow, 
And  within  thy  humble  heart 

Angel-whispers  soft  and  low  — 
Thou  canst  throw  thy  failing  eyes 

Back  upon  life's  checkered  leaf, 
Calling  out  its  smiles  and  sighs, 

And  its  hours  of  joy  and  grief. 


TO  AN  OLD  MAN.  31 

Like  a  painful,  pleasant  dream 

Must  the  past  appear  to  thee  ; 
Here  a  bright  and  golden  beam  — 

There  a  shade  of  misery. 
Here  the  glance  of  sunny  eyes, 

And  the  calm  brow  of  the  brave  ; 
There  the  turf  that  coldly  lies 

Over  Beauty's  early  grave. 


Tones  of  softest  melody 

Reach  thee  on  the  wind's  light  wing, 
Pouring  joy  into  the  heart 

Like  the  pleasant  breath  of  Spring ; 
Moans  that  from  the  troubled  soul 

Break  in  grief's  abandoned  wail, 
Turning  the  warm  blood  to  ice, 

And  the  flushed  cheek  deadly  pale. 


Here  the  wild  flowers  in  the  path, 

Throwing  sweets  upon  the  air  — 
And  the  dewy,  glittering  wreath, 

Shining  in  its  beauty  rare : 
There  the  flowerets,  withered,  dead, 

Lying  on  the  damp,  cold  earth 
And  the  bloom  forever  fled 

That  endowed  their  fragrant  birth ! 


32  TO  AN  OLD  MAN. 

Turn,  old  man,  thy  weary  eyes, 

And  thy  crushed  and  bleeding  heart, 

To  that  rest  where  bitter  sighs 
Never  from  the  bosom  start,  — 

Where  the  cares  and  bliss  of  earth 
Are  remembered  as  a  dream, 

And  upon  thy  brow  a  crown, 
,!'.. 

Placed  by  angel  hands,  shall  beam. 

•-••*•' 
Oh  !  it  must  be  sweet  to  look, 

In  thy  meek  and  childish  age, 
Far  away  from  Life's  dark  book  — 

From  each  dull  and  tear-dimmed  page  — 
To  a  home  of  radiant  light, 

.To  a  land  of  flowers  and.  bloom, 
Where  will  come  no  shade  of  night  — 

Where  will  creep  no  thought  of  gloom. 


THE  MAY  QUEEN. 


We  crown  thee  Queen !  — 
Thou  with  the  dark  hair  and  gentle  eye  — 

The  ivy  green 
Is  twined  with  the  rose-bud  of  delicate  dye  ; 

The  lily,  too, 
With  its  snowy  bosom  all  wet  with  dew, 

And  violets 
From  their  shady  nook  we  have  culled  for  you, 


n. 

We  have  wandered  o'er 
The  soft,  green  meadows  in  quest  of  flowers, 

And  by  the  shore 
Of  lake  and  stream,  for  many  long  hours  ; 


34  THE  MAY  QUEEN. 

Then  sat  us  down 
In  this  cool,  and  sweet,  and  shadowy  place, 

To  weave  a  crown  — 
A  beautiful  garland  for  thy  dear  face. 


in. 

The  lily  fair, 
With  its  leaves  all  spotless,  and  pure  and  white, 

In  thy  dark  hair 
Looks  forth  like  a  spirit  of  beauty  and  light. 

The  sweet  blush-rose 
Has  nestled  beside  thy  soft,  bright  cheek ; 

And  the  violet 
Looks  forth  from  its  curtain  with  glances  meek. 


IV. 

Oh  !    touch  her  brow 
With  a  light,  soft  pressure,  sweet  wreath  of  flowers  ! 

And  whisper  low 
Of  hope  and  comfort  in  future  hours ! 

From  her  fond  heart 
Oh !  banish  each  feeling  of  anguish  and  care  ; 

And  never  depart  — 
The  deep,  pure  thoughts  thou  hast  planted  there  ! 


FAVORITE  WILD  FLOWERS. 


Ye  are  here,  at  last,  sweet  flowers  ! 

I've  roamed  in  a  shadowy  grove  — 
With  a  sigh  through  the  bright  Spring  hours 

To  catch  your  first  glance  of  love. 
I've  knelt  to  the  deep,  rich  moss, 

With  its  glimmer  of  green  and  gold, 
To  see  if  your  azure  leaves 

Were  not  hid  in  its  velvet  fold. 


I've  bent  to  the  laughing  rill 

That  wrent  singing  in  its  glee, 
To  see  if  its  voice  of  love 

Were  not  breathing,  flower,  of  thee. 
And  among  the  lilies  white  — 

That  drooped  with  their  shining  dew  — 
I've  looked  for  a  form  of  light  — 

For  an  eye  of  meekest  blue. 


FAVORITE     WILD     FLOWERS. 

I  stooped  to  a  violet's  bed, 

Where  a  fragrant  sigh  rose  up, 
And  a  softened  light  was  shed 

O'er  its  delicate,  golden  cup. 
And  I  thought  to  find  thee  there  — 

Thou  lowly  and  lovely  thing  — 
For  the  fairest  and  the  fair 

Should  nestle  with  wing  to  wing. 


But  the  violet  and  the  rill 

Were  breathing  no  word  of  thee, 
And  the  moss  upon  the  hill 

Bore  flowers  less  dear  to  me. 
Then  I  sought  a  sheltered  nook, 

Where  the  sunbeams  rarely  play, 
(Except  with  a  farewell  look 

At  close  of  a  Summer's  day ;) 


Where  the  deep,  green  vines  were  clinging 

In  a  wreath  above  thy  head, 
And  stealthy  winds  were  bringing 

Soft  perfumes  from  thy  bed, 
Where  gleams  of  the  deep  blue  sky 

In  the  thick  leaves  seemed  to  rest, 
Lending  azure  to  thine  eye 

And  glory  to  thy  breast : 


FAVORITE     AVILD      FLOWERS.  37 

Yes  —  I  found  tliee  there,  sweet  flower, 

With  a  sudden,  joyous  start ; 
For  thou  hast  the  strange,  strange  power 

To  move  and  melt  my  heart. 
I  have  borne  thee  to  my  home  ; 

Thou'rt  here,  thou'rt  here  at  last, 
And  a  throng  have  with  thee  come  — 

Bright  memories  of  the  past. 


Not  strange  that  you  thus  should  throw 

Your  tendrils  around  my  soul ! 
Not  strange  that  you  thus  should  bow 

My  spirit  to  your  control ! 
Was  your  fragrant  breath  not  shed 

O'er  a  beauteous  brow  and  cold, 
That  lay  in  its  coffin  bed  — 

In  its  hair  of  sleeping  gold  ? 


Did  your  leaves  not  nestle  down 

To  a  chill  and  pulseless  breast, 
Whence  the  pure,  meek  soul  had  gone 

To  its  bright  and  heavenly  rest  ? 
And  did  not  a  hand  of  snow  — 

Tiny  and  frozen  as  death  — 
Lie  heavily  on  your  brow, 

And  press  out  your  fragrant  breath  ? 
4 


38  FAVORITE     WILD-     FLOWERS. 

You  whispered  so  softly  there 

Of  a  glorious  home  above, 
As  you  lay  in  her  golden  hair 

With  your  look  of  patient  love  ; 
You  withered  so  meekly,  too, 

On  her  still  and  icy  breast. 
With  your  leaves  of  palest  blue, 

As  you  shared  her  grave's  deep  rest 


Thou  art  loved  like  her,  dear  flower, 

And  I  dream  her  soul,  in  thee  — 
In  the  balmy  summer  hour  — 

May  smile  in  its  love  on  me ;  — 
That  I  see  the  loving  gaze 

Of  her  radiant,  heaven-blue  eye, 
And  hear  her  tone  as  thy  breath 

In  fragrance  is  wafted  by. 


MORNING  IN  JUNE. 


Come  out  beneath  the  skies 
On  this  June  morning !    Oh  !  how  deeply  blue 

Above  the  stream  that  lies 
Among  the  flowers,  all  wet  with  pearly  dew, 

They  bend  !     And  cloudlets  sail 
Within  the  azure  depths  with  snowy  wing, 

And,  flitting  o'er  the  vale, 
Their  shadows  with  a  somber  beauty  fling. 


40  MORNING    IN     JUNE. 

II. 

Come  out  among  the  flowers  ! 
The  glad,  bright  flowers  that  peep  from  grove  and  hedge  ; 

Within  the  leafy  bowers, 
And  by  the  streamlet,  stooping  o'er  its  edge 

They  wave ;  and  on  the  air  — 
The  pure,  warm  air  —  their  breath  comes  gushing  forth. 

On  morn  like  this  —  so  fair 
And  glorious  —  how  beautiful  is  earth  ! 


in. 

• 

Oh  !  Month  of  Roses  !     Thou 
Hast  ever  been  most  welcome  month  to  me  ; 

I  love  to  bare  my  brow 
To  thy  soft  winds,  and  to  the  minstrelsy 

Of  thy  glad  songsters  bend 
The  ear  to  listen.     Matins  soft  and  low 

With  thy  mild  zephyrs  blend, 
And  o'er  the  shaded  rills  the  sweet  notes  flow 


IV. 

Come  out  !     The  fresh  green  leaves 
Are  whispering  of  joy,  and  peace,  and  love  ; 

And  the  low-drooping  eaves 
The  wild  vine  throws  its  tendrils  far  above ; 


MORNING     IN    JUNE.  41 


And  butterflies  on  wing 
Of  gold  are  floating  through  the  heavy  air, 

And  purple  violets  bring 
Their  morning  incense,  smiling  everywhere. 


v. 

And  rose-wreaths  clamber  up 
Each  mossy  stone,  flinging  their  leaves  of  snow 

Into  the  blue-bell's  cup  ; 
And  opening  buds  with  fragrant  freshness  blow 

With  dew-gems  on  their  breast, 
And  sweetly  smile,  as  the  warm  sunbeam's  kiss 

Calls  them  from  their  deep  rest, 
To  yield  their  offering  to  a  morn  like  this. 

VI. 

Come  forth  !     And  with  a  heart 
Swelling  with  grateful  rapture  look  abroad  ! 

A  thrill  of  joy  must  start 
In  the  full  soul  a  note  of  praise  to  God, 

For  the  dear  birds  and  flowers, 
The  singing  streams  that  glance  thus  in  the  light, 

The  leafy  groves  and  bowers, 
And  all  that  makes  this  world  so  fair  and  bright. 


STANZAS. 


I  had  a  dream,  a  pleasant  dream,  for  thou  wert  by  my  side, 
In  the  flush  of  manly  beauty  and  in  all  thy  strength  and 

pride ; 
A  healthy  bloom  was  on  thy  cheek,  a  brightness    in  thy 

eye, 
And  I  heard  thy  voice  of  melody  come  trembling  softly  by. 


ii. 

It  was  a  dream  —  and  yet  methought  I  felt  upon  my  brow 
The  pressure  of  thy  gentle  hand  —  I  feel  that  pressure 

now ; 

But  when  I  start  with  wild  delight  to  fall  upon  thy  neck, 
I  stand  all  desolate  and  lone,  to  misery  awake. 


STANZAS.  43 


III. 


It  seems  but  yesterday  I  stood  a  blest  and  happy  bride, 

And  fondly  gazed  into  thy  eyes,  and  saw  thy  glance  of 
pride. 

We  little  thought  how  deep  a  night  would  close  that  cloud 
less  day, 

How  soon  thy  gentle  spirit,  love,  would  rise  and  pass  away. 


IV. 


I  saw  thee  falling  suddenly  :  they  told  me  thou  must  die  ; 
A  death-like  chill  was  on  my  heart,  a  tear  within  my  eye  ; 
I  bent  above  thy  marble  brow,  and  saw  the  paleness  there, 
And  put  the  clustering  ringlets   back  in  mute  and  dark 
despair. 


v. 


Oh!    none  may  know   the  agony  that  tore  my  bleeding 

heart, 
When  I  pressed  thy  white  and  icy  cheek,  and  saw  thy  life 

depart : 

One  look  of  love  unspeakable  beamed  from  thy  dying  eyes, 
And  then  thy  spirit,  freed  from  earth,  had  soared  beyond 

the  skies. 


44  STANZAS. 

VI. 
i 

Oh !  would  that  I  might  pierce  the  veil  that  hides  the 

spirit  land, 
And  listen  to  the  heavenly  strains  that  flow  beneath  thy 

hand ; 
Oh  !  would  that  I  might  gaze  upon  the  crown  that  gilds 

thy  brow, 
And  see  thy  face  all  radiant  with  smiles  of  rapture  now ! 

VII. 

Within  the  green  and  silent  grave  they've  laid  thee  down 

to  rest, 
With  thy  cold  and  marble  fingers  folded  lightly  on  thy 

breast ; 
But  thou  ne'er  shalt  see  the  springing  buds  that  blossom 

o'er  thy  brow, 
For  the  flowers  which  never,  never  fade,  are  blooming 

round  thee  now. 


SWEET    MEMORIES. 


Oh  !  there  are  memories  that  throng 

So  closely  round  the  heart, 
That  of  its  hidden,  trembling  strings 

They  seem  to  form  a  part. 
They're  woven  in  with  every  dream 

That  haunts  our  nightly  rest, 
And  nestle  like  a  golden  beam 

Deep  in  the  troubled  breast. 


48  SWEET    MEMORIES. 

Oh  !  there  are  memories  that  crowd 

And  cluster  in  the  brain  — 
That  bind  us  gently  to  the  past, 

And  make  us  grasp  again 
The  blooming  flowers  our  childhood  knew. 

Ere  change  had  come,  or  blight, 
When  each  fair  bud  was  wet  with  dew  — 

Each  blossom  crowned  with  light. 


Sweet  memories  !      Ye  gently  now 

Are  whispering  to  my  heart ; 
I  feel  your  light  upon  my  brow. 

And  tears  of  rapture  start. 
Ye  tell  me  of  the  sun-lit  hours 

Of  life's  transcendent  morn, 
When  birds  sang  gaily,  and  the  flowers 

Bore  not  their  later  thorn. 


Ye  tell  me  of  the  young,  the  fair, 

Who  flitted  round  my  path  ; 
I  twine  amid  their  clustering  hair 

A  bright  and  beauteous  wreath. 
I  listen  to  the  warbled  notes 

That  tremble  on  the  tongue, 
Till  through  my  soul  the  music  ilonts 

Like  strains  by  angels  sung. 


SWEET     MEMORIES.  49 

Oh  !  stay,  then,  gentle  memories, 

Within  my  heart  of  hearts, 
And  softly  hush  its  heaving  sighs, 

And  wipe  the  tear  that  starts. 
Oh  !  hold,  ye  gentle  memories, 

Your  empire  in  my  breast, 
'Till  death  shall  close  my  weary  eyes, 

And  take  me  to  its  rest ! 


TO  A  SOUTHERN   POETESS. 


Clouds  are  floating  through  the  heaven, 

Tinged  with  brightest  gold, 
And  the  gentle  star  of  even  — 

From  its  azure  fold — 
Peeps  into  my  open  casement, 

Like  an  eye  of  love, 
And  it  whispers  to  my  spirit  — 

Whispers  from  above. 


TO    A    SOUTHERN    POETESS.  51 

Now  the  evening  winds  are  singing 

Through  the  maple  leaves, 
And  the  drooping  boughs  are  swinging 

'Neath  the  cottage  eaves. 
And  the  birds  have  sought  the  shadows 

With  their  folded  wings, 
While  the  night's  low  voices  murmur 

In  sweet  whisperings. 


Mists  are  on  the  mountains  lying  — 

Dew  is  on  the  flowers, 
And  a  soft  and  gentle  sighing 

Fills  the  vales  and  bowers. 
And  the  silver  moonbeam  glances 

From  the  azure  sea  ; 
As  the  silent  night  advances, 

Dream  I,  now,  of  thee ! 


Hear  I  now  the  gentle  murmur 

Of  the  limpid  streams  ; 
See  I  now  the  flowers  of  Summer, 

And  its  golden  beams  ; 
And  the  mild  and  mellow  moon-rays 

That  at  evening  come  — 
Weaving  silvery  wreaths  of  beauty 

Round  thy  Southern  home. 


52  TO    A    SOUTHERN    POETESS. 

Now  I'm  fondly  dreaming,  dearest, 

Dreaming — I  am  there ! 
Listen,  sister,  'till  thou  nearest 

On  the  silent  air 
Tones  of  love  that  I  would  breathe  thee, 

Soft,  and  sweetly  spoken  — 
For  I  fold  my  hands,  and  tremble, 

Lest  the  spell  be  broken. 


I  would  weave  a  wreath  of  roses  — 

Weave  them  for  thy  brow, 
While  the  evening  dew  reposes 

In  their  buds,  as  now. 
I  would  bind  it  in  thy  tresses, 

With  a  murmured  prayer 
That  the  cloud  of  earthly  sorrow 

Ne'er  may  hover  there. 


Softly  float  across  the  heaven 

Clouds  of  fleecy  white, 
Like  some  watchful  spirits  driven 

In  their  robes  of  light ; 
And  the  islands  of  the  blessed, 

Glittering  and  bright, 
Gleam  far  up  amid  the  stillness, 

On  the  sea  of  night. 


TO    A    SOUTHERN    POETESS.  53 

Do  our  lost  ones,  'mid  the  brightness 

Of  yon  shining  gems  — 
Forms  of  airy  grace  and  lightness 

With  their  diadems  — 
Wander  now  with  harps  all  golden 

Over  radiant  flowers, 
Never  withering,  ne'er  grown  olden, 

In  those  heavenly  bowers  ? 


We  will  deem  that  it  is  even 

As  it  seemeth  now  — 
That  we  see  the  light  of  heaven 

In  the  stars'  mild  glow ; 
That  they  watch  us  —  angel  spirits  — 

From  their  home  above  ; 
That  these  solemn,  thrilling  voices 

Are  their  tones  of  love. 


THE  CAPTIVE   EXILE'S  DREAM. 


*Tis  gone !     Twas  but  a  flash  of  light  that  broke 

Across  my  darkened  way  —  a  whisper  sweet 
Within  my  crushed  and  bleeding  heart  that  woke 

A  joy  as  pure  and  exquisite  as  fleet ! 
I  stund  again  within  ray  prison  walls, 

With  folded  hands  and  brow  all  cold  and  chill,  • 
No  beam  of  light  across  my  pathway  falls, 

And  gloom  and  darkness  are  around  me  still. 


THE    CAPTIVE    EXILE'S    DREAM.  55 

But  could  it  be  a  dream  —  a  mockery  all  ? 

But  now  —  I  stood  within  the  ancient  dome 
Across  whose  marble  steps  the  sunbeams  fall, 

And  to  whose  garden  flowers  the  Spring-winds  come. 
I  was  a  child,  a  pure  and  guileless  boy, 

With  the  soft  tint  of  health  upon  my  cheek ; 
And  my  heart  bounded  with  the  pulse  of  joy  — 

A  joy  too  deep  for  feeble  words  to  speak. 
A  form  of  angel  beauty  bent  above  me, 

Within  a  soft,  fair  hand  my  own  was  prest, 
And  oh  !  I  knew  that  my  meek  mother  loved  me, 

As  then  she  clasped  me  to  her  throbbing  breast. 
We  wandered  forth  where  the  pure  waters  glide 

In  soothing  murmurs  over  bending  flowers, 
And  on  the  changing  landscape,  far  and  wide, 

Were  scattered  drooping  trees  and  shady  bowers. 
And  there  beneath  the  shadow  of  the  trees 

A  fairy  group  had  gathered.     Sisters  dear  — 
Their  long  curls  floating  in  the  Summer  breeze  — 

And  in  their  deep,  blue  eyes  a  happy  tear  — 
Came  bounding  forward  with  their  tones  of  glee, 

To  grasp  my  hand,  and  round  my  bending  neck 
Throw  their  white  arms  —  their  hearts  as  glad  and  free 

As  the  soft  winds  that  tones  of  music  make. 

Once  more  —  childhood  had  passed,  its  smiles,  its  tears  — 
And  my  cheeks  glowed  in  early  manhood's  pride ; 


56  THE    CAPTIVE     EXILE'S    DREAM. 

My  full  heart  knew  no  grief —  no  coward  fears  — 

But  beat  in  the  full  strength  of  youth's  free  tide. 
The  world  was  beautiful,  and  the  pure  light 

Of  heaven's  o'erarching  blue  beamed  on  my  way ; 
And  gazing  on  the  spangled  brow  of  Night, 

Or  musing  in  the  radiance  of  Day, 
I  was  most  happy.     Forms  and  faces  bright 

Seemed  hovering  round  my  path  with  violet  eyes, 
And  foreheads,  'neath  their  golden  curls,  as  white 

As  a  pure  lily's  breast,  and  from  the  skies 
Was  wafted  thrilling  music. 

There  was  one  — 

A  pure  and  girlish  one  —  with  light  brown  hair 
That  parted  from  a  pearly  brow  ;  her  tone 

Whene'er  she  breathed  my  name  was  light  as  air, 
And  full  of  sweetest  melody.     Her  eyes 

Were  heaven's  own  blue,  —  as  calmly  dark  and  deep 
As  the  still  bosom  of  a  lake  that  lies 

In  shade,  when  the  soft  winds  of  Summer  sleep. 
Mary !     'Twas  thy  meek  gaze  that  woke  my  heart 

From  its  long  slumber,  once  again  to  thrill 
With  exquisite  delight ;  once  more  to  start 

And  bound  with  holy  rapture,  but  'tis  still,  — 
Throbless  and  icy  cold  within  my  breast ! 

Ah  !  doubly  wretched  is  my  lone  life  now, 
Since  the  bright  thoughts  that  soothed  my  soul  to  rest 

Have  sunk  in  darkness  like  the  golden  glow 
That  at  the  close  of  day  goes  down  the  West. 


THE    CAPTIVE     EXILE'S    DREAM.  57 

Alone  !     When  the  refulgent  king  of  Day 

Throws  his  broad  beams  across  the  Western  sky, 
And  the  glad  floweret,  with  the  breeze  at  play, 

Raises  to  heaven  its  dew-bespangled  eye ; 
When  the  calm  hour  of  evening  comes  —  the  hour 

That  brings  a  holy  peace,  a  grateful  prayer, 
And  the  heart  gushes  forth  beneath  the  power 

Of  gentle  love,  and  on  the  fragrant  air 
Are  wafted  sweetest  sounds ;  and  when  the  hush 

Of  solemn  midnight  lies  upon  the  earth, 
And  o'er  the  crushed  and  drooping  spirit  rush  — 

Like  a  fierce  mockery  —  the  tones  of  mirth 
That  haunted  the  bright  past  —  alone !  alone  ! 

I  bend  within  my  prison  home  and  sigh 
That  I  must  wither  thus,  and  droop  and  die. 

They  pass  away  —  the  long  and  tedious  days  — 

But  bring  no  hope.     No  lingering  ray  of  light 
Creeps  through  my  heavy  walls,  and  gently  plays 

With  my  long,  unshorn  hair.     To  bless  my  sight, 
There  comes  no  love-lit  eye,  and,  to  my  ear, 

No  soft  endearing  word,  to  tell  that  one 
Among  the  crowd  that  listened  once  to  hear 

My  faintest  tone,  now  that,  unseen,  alone 
I  weep,  mourns  with  me.     If  I  might  but  breathe 

Heaven's  free,  pure  air  once  more,  and  bend  above, 
And  pluck  the  modest,  meek-eyed  flowers  that  wreathe 

A  garland  for  the  earth  —  the  flowers  I  love  ;  — 


58  THE    CAPTIVE    EXILE'S    DREAM. 

Oh  !  if  I  might  but  bare  my  fevered  brow 

To  the  soft  breeze  of  Summer,  flinging  back 
These  matted  locks  that  droop  so  darkly  now, 

And  feel  the  warm  and  golden  sunbeams  track 
Across  my  hollow  cheek  —  but  no  !     There  comes 

No  hope  of  such  a  bliss.     I  must  lie  down 
Within  this  narrow  cell  where  darkness  reigns, 

Unshrouded  and  unmourned.     I  must  alone 
Tread  the  deep  vale  of  death,  and  sink  to  sleep, 
With  no  fond  eye  above  my  grave  to  weep. 

Hush  !  —  for  a  sound,  a  soft  and  soothing  strain, 

Hath  reached  my  prison  room  !     It  floats  along  — 
Now  tender,  and  now  rich  and  clear ;  again, 

Trembling  as  sweetly  as  the  winds  upon 
An  untuned  harp-string !     Hush,  my  fluttering  heart ! 

Is  it  some  angel  spirit,  come  to  break 
The  chain  that  binds  me  here,  and  shall  I  start, 

Free  as  the  air  from  these  dark  walls,  and  take 
My  path  to  yonder  heaven  ? 

Father !  forgive, 

If  I  have  murmured  'neath  the  heavy  blow 
That  thus  hath  crushed  my  soul !     I  would  not  live 

And  wander  from  the  thorny  path  which  Thou 
Hast  marked  ;  but,  ere  I  close  my  weary  eyes, 
One  heartfelt  prayer  !     E'en  now  the  thought  will  rise 
The  thought  of  one  whom  more  than  aught  on  earth 


THE    CAPTIVE    EXILE'S    DREAM.  59 

I  love.     For  many  weary  months,  the  hearth 
Round  which  we  gathered  hath  been  dark  and  drear. 
Oh  !  Father  !     Hush  the  sighs,  and  quench  the  tear 
Of  that  meek,  gentle  one  !     And  when,  at  last, 
Her  years  of  bitterness  shall  all  have  passed, 
Take  her  to  dwell  with  Thee  on  that  bright  shore 
"Where  we  shall  meet  again,  to  part  no  more  ! 


THE  MOTHER'S    GIFT. 


Sister,  I  give  to  thee 
With  my  last  breath  this  precious  trust ; 

Ere  my  frail  form  shall  be 
Lifeless  and  cold  beneath  the  dust, 

I  lay  my  yearning  heart, 
With  all  its  weakness  at  thy  feet ; 

And  tell  thee,  ere  we  part, 
Its  rising  fears  —  its  hopes  all  bright  and  sweet. 


THE  MOTHER'S  GIFT,  61 

Sister,  now  lay  thy  hand 
Upon  my  darling's  youthful  head  ; 

Angels  from  that  far  land 
Are  lingering  near  with  noiseless  tread  ; 

And  meekly  raise  thy  eyes  — 
Those  soft,  dark  eyes  whose  gaze  I  love  — 

To  the  deep  bending  skies : 
Then  breathe  the  vow  I  ask  to  Heaven  above ! 


Sister,  I  give  her  now, 
With  her  pure,  loving  heart,  to  thee. 

Look  on  her  girlish  brow 
Where  genius  sits  all  high  and  free, 

And  say  that  when  shall  rest 
My  weary  form  within  the  grave, 

Thou'lt  take  her  to  thy  breast, 
And  for  thy  charge  Heaven's  choicest  blessings  crave. 


Sister,  I  break  the  tie — 
The  dearest  tie  that  binds  me  here ; 

Yet  not  without  a  sigh, 
Nor  can  I  check  the  falling  tear. 

I  know  that  thou  wilt  be 
Gentle  and  kind  ;  yet  feelings  wild 

And  deep  come  over  me, 
As  now  I  give  her  up  —  my  darling  child. 
6 


62  THE  MOTHER'S  GIFT. 

Sister,  I'm  calmer  now. 
A  holy  spell  is  over  me  ; 

I  hear  a  whisper  low, 
Breathing  in  sweetest  melody : 

"  Worn  spirit  hush  thy  fears  — 
Thou  goest  to  a  better  land  ; 

Worn  spirit,  dry  thy  tears — 
Thy  child  shall  ever  know  my  guiding  hand." 


Sister,  I  give  her  up 
To  Heaven's  protecting  care  and  thine  ; 

I've  drained  the  bitter  cup, 
And  now  are  peace  and  calmness  mine. 

I^ead  her  young  mind  to  God, 
And  bid  her  fix  her  love  above  the  earth, 

That  she  may  kiss  the  rod 
When  gloom  and  sorrow  hover  round  her  path. 


Sister,  sometimes  at  close, 
Of  a  bright  Summer's  day, 

When  o'er  the  bending  rose 
The  spirit-breeze  shall  softly  play, — 

Oh  take  her  by  the  hand, 
And  kneel  above  her  mother's  grave  ; 

Tell  her  of  that  bright  land 
That  lies  beyond  Time's  ruthless  wave. 


THE  MOTHER'S  GIFT.  63 

And  tell  her,  sister  dear, 
An  angel  waits  on  that  blest  shore 

To  guide  her  steps  while  here, 
And  take  her  when  her  life  is  o'er. 

Now  sister  mine,  adieu  ! 
The  storm  is  past  —  I  go  to  reign 

In  heaven  :  O  be  thou  true, 
'Till  in  that  blessed  home  we  meet  again ! 


KING  DEATH  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 


i. 


On  a  fair  summer  day  when  the  bright  earth  was  clad 

In  her  vesture  of  beautiful  dyes, 
When  a  burst  of  wild  music  that  made  the  heart  glad 

Was  heard  on  the  soft  winds  to  rise  — 
King  Death  took  his  quiver,  and  wandered  alone 

'Till  he  came  to  a  garden  of  flowers  ; 
When  he  bent  low  his  ear  to  list  to  a  song 

That  stole  softly  from  vine-hidden  bowers. 


KING  DEATH  AND  THE  MAIDEN.  65 

II. 

On  a  soft,  mossy  seat  reclined  a  young  girl, 

In  the  flush  of  her  beauty  and  grace ; 
On  her  forehead  of  snow  lay  a  bright,  golden  curl, 

And  a  smile  wreathed  her  beautiful  face. 
Her  soft  eye  of  blue  was  bent  laughingly  down 

To  a  garland  her  fairy  hands  wrought, 
While  a  rich,  mellow  strain  from  her  sweet  lips  that  flowed 

On  the  wings  of  the  Zephyr  was  caught. 


in. 

King  Death  stood  awhile,  'till  the  last  liquid  sound 

Had  melted  in  sweetness  away, 
Then  he  stealthily  crept  o'er  the  flower-sprinkled  ground,. 

To  the  bower  where  the  fair  maiden  lay. 
With  his  cold,  icy  fingers  he  parted  the  vine, 

And  gazed  on  his  victim  awhile  — 
Saw  her  fair  dimpled  hands  the  rich  blossoms  entwine, 

And  her  dark  eyes  grow  bright  with  a  smile ; — 


IV. 


Then  o'er  her  full  lips  and  her  rose  tinted  cheek 

That  smile  in  its  radiance  crept ; — 
On  her  tongue  a  soft  murmur  which  words  might  not  speak 

Told  the  tale  in  her  bosom  that  slept. 
*6 


G6  KING  DEATH  AND  THE  MAIDEN. 

She  raised  with  her  white,  fairy  fingers  the  wreath,, 
And  placed  it  upon  her  young  head  : 

A  low  burst  of  gladness  came  with  her  full  breath, 
And  King  Death  his  arrow  had  sped ! 


v. 

Sweet  maiden  !     One  sound  —  a  low,  quivering  sigh 

Came  tremblingly  forth  from  her  breast ; 
The  dark  lashes  fell  o'er  the  deep  azure  eye, 

And  the  spirit  arose  to  its  rest. 
King  Death  bent  one  moment  above  the  fair  head — 

With  its  clustering  ringlets  of  gold — 
Then,  smiling,  he  turned  from  her  green,  mossy  bed., 

And  left  the  maid  lifeless  and  cold. 


BY-GONE  DAYS. 


I  will  dream  upon  this  shore : 

As  the  soft  light  flashes  o'er 

Tiny  waves  that  fall  and  rise, 

Blue  and  golden  like  the  skies  — 

As  the  low  wind  bears    along 

Incense  sweet  and  breath  of  song, 

And  the  willow  branches  bow 

To  the  deepening  shades  below, 

And  the  li^ht  spray  bathes  the  flowers 

I  v,  ill  dream  of  by-gone  hours  ! 


68  BY-GONE  DAYS. 


II. 


Sunset  hues  are  in  the  west, 
And  upon  the  azure  breast 
Of  the  peaceful  heavens  at  rest, 
Gorgeous  clouds,  in  glory  drest : 
Gold  and  purple  mingle  there, 
And  ihe  air,  the  very  air 
Seems  a  sea  of  blended  dyes. 
Waving  'neath  the  dark,  deep  skies,- 
Bearing  on  its  unseen  wings 
To  the  soul  all  beauteous  things. 


in. 


Now  the  bright  tints  die  away 
Softly,  as  the  glad  beams  play 
On  the  river's  joyous  face 
That  has  lain  in  their  embrace ; 
(For  the  waters  pure  and  cold 
Seem  a  sea  of  burnished  gold ;) 
Now  a  somber  look,  and  grave, 
Stealeth  o'er  the  shining  wave  — 
Now  is  hushed  their  music  light 
'Neath  the  shadows  of  the  night. 


BY  GONE-DAYS.  69 


IV. 


Up  among  the  branches  old 
Of  the  dt-ar  elms,  proud  and  bold, 
Looketh  down  an  eye  of  love 
From  the  quiet  realms  above ! 
Shedding  silver  beams  afar, 
Shineth  out  the  evening  star 
Like  a  drop  of  pearly  dew 
From  a  violet  deeply  blue, 
Or  a  tear  within  the  eye 
As  a  love  tone  creepeth  by. 


v. 


Now  upon  the  river's  breast 
Seems  the  golden  star  to  rest, 
While  the  shadows  deeply  lie 
Round  the  azure  of  the  sky, 
And  a  voice  is  borne  along 
Like  the  joyous  breath  of  song  ! 
Softly  now  that  music  tone 
Telleth  of  the  bright  hours  gone  — 
Of  the  thornless  flowers  that  lay 
Round  Life's  fair  and  opening  day. 


70  BY-GONE    DAYS. 


VI. 


By-gone  hours  !     Ye're  with  me  now 
Sunshine  sits  upon  my  brow  — 
Deepest  thoughts  of  rapture  start 
In  my  young  and  bounding  heart ; 
Now  I  pluck  the  violet  blue, 
Shaking  off  the  pearly  dew  ; — 
Now  the  rose-bud,  pure  and  white, 
Blesses  my  admiring  sight, 
And  the  lily's  lip  of  snow 
Flings  its  breath  across  my  brow ! 


VII. 


Now  bright  eyes  and  waving  hair 
Flash  along  the  quiet  air ; — 
Now  white  fingers  softly  twine 
Flowers  upon  this  brow  of  mine, 
And  low  words  are  sweetly  said, 
Trembling  o'er  my  bending  head  - 
Falling  with  a  touch  as  light 
On  my  throbbing  heart  to-night, 
As  in  years  long — long  ago, 
"When  I  felt  their  music  flow  ! 


BY-GONK  DAYS.  71 


VIII. 


That  pale  star  is  gazing  still 
From  the  bosom  of  the  rill, 
And  the  little  waves  that  dance 
O'er  its  loving,  trembling  glance, 
"Whisper  with  a  tone  as  free, 
And  as  full  of  mirth  and  glee, 
As  the  voices  of  the  young 
That  across  my  path  were  flung  — 
Voices  of  the  fair  and  brave 
That  are  sleeping  in  the  grave. 


IX. 


Now  the  spell  is  broken  :  now 
Shadows  creep  upon  my  brow, 
And  the  blue  eyes'  joyous  light 
Fades  into  the  gloom  of  night. 
Now  the  tones  of  mirth  are  hushed, 
And  a  mourning  voice  hath  gushed 
On  the  night-breeze  —  solemn,  low  ; 
Not  the  tone  of  "  long  ago  " — 
But  it  tells  of  graves  that  lie 
Where  the  low  winds  murmur  by. 


72  BY-GONE  DAYS. 

X. 

And  it  tells  of  brows  grown  cold, 
Gleaming  up  through  curls  of  gold  ; 
And  of  hands  that  softly  lie 
On  the  breast  that  heaves  no  sigh ; 
And  of  eyes  whose  joyous  flash 
Faded  'neath  the  drooping  la-h  — 
Of  young  hearts  whose  music-tone 
From  the  earth  for  aye  hath  gone  : 
Oh  !  of  these  the  night-winds  tell, 
•  Bearing  sadness  in  their  swell. 


MORNING  IN  OCTOBER. 


A  mist  is  o'er  the  mountains  hovering  — 

Curling  about  their  lofty  heads, 
And  gauzy  clouds  the  heavens  are  covering, 

While  a  soft  vapor  spreads 
Across  the  slumbering  earth  —  its  hills 

Crowned  with  their  rich  and  gorgeous  dyes ; 
And  from  the  bosom  of  the  rills 

Smile  in  new  glory  Autumn's  azure  skies. 
7 


74  MORNING  IN  OCTOBER. 

Tis  early  morn  in  gay  October, 

And  we  are  out  among  the  hills  ! 
We  try  to  look  sedate  and  sober, 

And  fancy  that  the  murmuring  rills 
Sing  now  a  plaintive  tune,  but  no  ! 

A  gladder  strain  ne'er  filled  the  soul 
Than  chant  their  bright  waves  as  they  go, 

O'er  fall  and  plain  to  their  far  distant  goal. 


The  sun  comes  up  the  Orient  slowly, 

Arrayed  in  majesty  serene. 
Throwing  upon  the  high  and  lowly 

The  splendor  of  his  golden  sheen, 
And  flinging  many  a  radiant  glance 

Athwart  the  mist  that  shrouds  the  hills, 
And  on  the  waves  that  laugh  and  dance 

Upon  the  bosom  of  the  silver  rills. 


Now  rolls  away  the  misty  curtain  — 

Melting  beneath  the  Day1- King's  gaze, — 
Now  creeping  back  on  breath  uncertain, 

And  trembling  in  the  golden  haze. 
The  curtain  lift !     And  gorgeous  now 

The  wreath  of  rainbow  tints  that  lies 
Entwined  about  the  mountain's  brow, 

Beneath  the  azure  drapery  of  the  skies  ! 


MORNING  IN  OCTOBER.  75 

Blest  Nature  smiles  ;  her  face  is  glowing 

With  a  new  beauty,  and  the  fair, 
Bright  gems  that  deck  her  brow,  are  throwing 

Their  soft  reflection  everywhere. 
Upon  our  hearts  their  rich  light  plays, 

And  unseen  fingers  touch  their  strings, 
Making  new  melody,  while  strays 

The  peaceful  spirit  'mid  these  glorious  things. 


IDA'S  GRAVE. 


Where  the  first  flowers  of  Spring, 
Nature's  own  offering, 

Modestly  wave, 
"Where  incense  rises  up 
From  the  pale  lily's  cup, 

There  make  her  grave. 


IDA'S  GRAVE.  77 


ii. 


Where  the  sweet  violet, 
With  the  clear  dew-drop  wet, 

Meekly  looks  forth, 
Sending  its  breath  of  love, 
To  the  deep  skies  above, 

Bending  o'er  earth ;  — 


in. 

Where  the  bright  fountain  plays 
Through  the  long  summer  days, 

Throwing  its  gems 
Over  the  floweret's  bed, 
Crowning  its  modest  head 

With  diadems ;  — 


IV. 

Oh !  make  her  deep  grave  there ! 
There,  on  the  fragrant  air, 

Softly  shall  rise 
Music  from  stream  and  bird  — 
Notes  from  the  dark  leaves  stirred 

By  the  wind's  sighs  I 
7* 


78  IDA'S  GRAVE. 

v. 

There  make  her  lowly  grave, 
Where  the  meek  flowerets  wave 

In  the  soft  air  : 
She  was  a  bright  bud  riven 
Only  to  shine  in  heaven, 

Fadeless  and  fair ! 


MY  PRAYER. 


Not  that  the  wreath  of  fame 
May  twine  around  my  brow  ; — 

Not  that  my  humble  name 

From  haughty  lips  may  flow  — 

Mingled  with  those  as  coldly  proud  as  they 
I  daily,  nightly  pray. 


80  MY  PRAYER. 

Not  that  the  rich  and  great 

May  crowd  about  my  path  — 
Showering  beneath  my  feet 

The  choicest  flowers  of  earth  — 
Not  in  their  smiles  that  my  full  heart  may  bask 

I  kneel,  and  humbly  ask. 


But  Oh  !  upon  my  head 

Let  TRUTH'S  pure  sunlight  shine, 
And  blessings  warmly  said 

From  grateful  hearts  be  mine  ! 
Let  noble  love  that  will  not  brook  control 

Fall  on  my  weary  soul ! 


I  would  not  that  my  cheek 

Should  glow  beneath  the  notes 

Of  praise  ;  but  rather  seek 
The  incense  pure  that  floats, 

All  silently,  from  humble  hearts,  that  prove 
Their  deep  and  changeless  love. 


MY  PRAYER.  81 

I  have  a  golden  bird 

With  light  and  fragile  wing : 
Its  gentle  tone  is  heard, 

Soft  as  the  breath  of  Spring, 
At  morn  and  noon  :  its  sweet  and  holy  eyes 
Beam  on  my  path  when  stormy  clouds  arise, 
Like  sunlight  from  the  skies. 


And  I  have  many  a  rose 

Of  blended  pink  and  white, 
Whose  tender  leaves  unclose 

And  tremble  in  the  light : 

They  breathe  their  fragrance  out  upon  my  heart, 
And  peace  and  joy  impart. 


And  I  would  ever  stay 

Among  the  birds  and  flowers  — 
From  the  cold  world  away  — 

Listening  for  long,  long  hours, 
To  their  sweet  sounds  that  rise  in  gladness  up, 
On  the  rich  fragrance,  as  the  songsters  sup 
Sweets  from  the  floweret's  cup. 


82  MY  PRAYER. 

Give  me  no  heartless  tone 

That  breathes  the  world's  cold  praise  ! 
Its  music  soon  is  gone, 

And  disappointment  preys 
On  the  mistaken  heart  that  fondly  clung 
Upon  the  notes  it  sung. 


Not  that  Fame's  wreath  may  twine 

In  coldness  round  my  brow 
I  ask  :  not  at  her  shrine 

With  eager  heart  I  bow. 

But  may  the  sunshine  and  the  smile  of  Heaven 
Unto  my  soul  be  given ! 


THE    FATHER   TO   HIS   MOTHERLESS    CHIL 
DREN. 


Come  close  around  me,  darlings,  for  my  heart 
Is  very  sad  to-night.     I  miss  the  fond 
And  loving  eyes  that  used  to  shed  their  light 
Like  sunbeams  from  the  skies  about  my  path  — 
The  tone  of  love  that  fell  upon  my  soul  — 
My  weary  soul  —  like  the  soft,  gentle  dew 
Upon  a  drooping  flower.     Come  here,  my  own, 


84          THE  FATHER  TO  HIS  MOTHERLESS  CHILDREN. 

My  precious  Mary,  with  thy  dove-like  eyes 

And  pure,  meek  brow  —  sit  at  my  feet,  and  lay 

Thy  pale  cheek  on  my  knee,  and  raise  thy  glance 

Of  yearning  tenderness  to  meet  my  own  ! 

There !     Her  sweet  spirit  gazes  through  those  orbs, 

And  thrills  my  aching  heart.     Speak,  love  !  Thou  hast 

Her  voice,  deep  in  its  thrilling  melody, 

And  its  low  music  moves  my  burdened  soul 

Like  the  faint  murmur  of  a  plaining  lute. 


And  thou,  my  bird !  Alice,  my  joyous  one, 
With  thy  dark,  brilliant  eyes  and  curls  of  jet, 
Here  on  my  bosom  lay  thy  head,  and  let 
My  cold  lips  press  thy  snowy  brow !     Thou  wast 
Her  pet,  and  thy  clear,  joyful  tones  have  brought 
Full  many  a  ray  of  sunlight  to  her  hours 
Of  pain  and  weariness.     I  see  her  now  ! 
Her  beauteous  head  on  yon  white  pillow  laid, 
Like  some  white  lily  crushed  beneath  the  storm, 
And  thy  pure  arms  about  her  neck  —  thy  locks 
Of  glossy  black  mingling  with  her  brown  hair, 
That  had  a  beam  of  gold,  in  every  curl  — 
In  graceful  folds  —  that  parted  from  her  brow. 
She  passed  to  heaven,  leaving  a  kiss  of  love 
On  these  fair  foreheads,  and  a  blessing  fond. 
And  faintly  murmured,  on  these  youthful  heads. 


THE  FATHER  TO  HIS  MOTHERLESS  CHILDREN.         85 

For  me  —  when  the  last  look  of  tenderness 
Faded  from  her  mild  eyes,  and  on  my  breast 
Her  cold  form  lay  so  heavily  —  I  longed 
To  die,  and  leave  this  darksome  world  with  her. 
Yes !     bending  o'er  her  marble  face,  I  prayed 
For  death,  and  for  a  while  forgot  the  ties 
That  bound  me  still  to  earth  —  forgot  that  ye, 
My  darling  ones,  were  by  with  your  young  heads 
Bowed  down  in  sadness,  and  your  pensive  eyes 
Like  violets  in  the  dew,  humid  with  tears. 
It  shall  be  mine  to  guide  your  feet,  my  dears, 
Along  life's  thorny  track  —  to  shield  your  heads 
From  the  rude  storms  of  earth,  and  on  my  heart 
Bear  you  with  all  a  mother's  care  ;  and  when 
The  Messenger  shall  call  me  hence,  gladly 
To  join  her  angel  form  in  paradise. 
8 


TO ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 


Thou'st  led  her  to  the  altar  — 
The  white  wreath  gleaming  on  her  snowy  brow  • 

But  did  thy  tongue  not  falter, 
As  in  low  tones  was  breathed  that  solemn  vow  ? 
Did  not  the  voice  of  her  —  the  dead,  the  dear, 
Linger  like  mournful  music  in  thy  ear  ? 


TO  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE.  87 

Those  words  thy  lips  have  spoken, 
And  thou  hast  pressed  her  fondly  to  thy  breast : 

The  golden  chain  is  broken 
That  gently  bound  thee  to  the  lost  —  the  blest : 
But  did  not  her  meek  form  before  thee  come, 
As  when  she  dwelt  within  thy  heart  —  thy  home  ? 


Thy  arms  have  fondly  taken 
A  fair  young  creature  to  their  warm  embrace  : 

But  O  hast  thou  forsaken 
The  memory  of  that  sweeter,  lovelier  face  ?  — 
The  eyes  that  looked  so  kindly  into  thine, 
Whose  gaze  was  treasured  in  thy  heart's  deep  shrine  ? 


The  lips  thy  own  have  prest  — 
The  cheeks  whose  blushes  kindled  in  thy  gaze  — 

The  fond  and  faithful  breast 
In  which  thy  image  had  its  dwelling  place  — 
The  heafrt  that  would  have  broken  thee  to  save, 
Are  still  and  cold  within  the  silent  grave. 


88  TO  ON  HIS  MARRIAGE. 

But  oh  thou  canst  not  lightly 
Think  of  the  hours  that  flew  so  swiftly  by, 

When  she  was  daily  —  nightly, 
With  her  low  tones  and  her  beguiling  eye, 
Hovering  a  guardian  angel  by  thy  side, — 
Thy  joy,  thy  hope,  thy  full  heart's  noblest  pride  ! 


THE  DYING  STUDENT. 


I  feel  the  fever's  hot  breath  flashing 

In  deep  and  deadly  strife, 
From  my  pale,  parched  lips  madly  dashing 

The  golden  cup  of  life. 
Disease  with  cold  and  icy  fingers 

Now  creeps  about  my  heart, 
And  death  but  for  a  moment  lingers 

To  snap  its  chords  apart. 


90  THE  DYING  STUDENT. 

My  heavy  pulse  is  weaker  growing  ; 

Life's  lamp  burns  feebly  now, 
And  the  long  locks  are  darkly  flowing 

Upon  my  damp,  cold  brow. 
I  hear  a  voice,  low,  faint  and  broken, 

Falling  upon  my  heart ; 
Its  tones  in  dfcemn  awe  have  spoken 

That  I  must  soon  depart. 


And  must  my  wild  dreams  coldly  perish, 

And  wither  in  the  dust  — 
The  golden  hopes  I  fondly  cherish  — 

My  earthly  joy  and  trust  ?  — 
The  schemes  my  soul  has  long  been  forming, 

Just  bursting  into  light, 
And  tones  of  love  my  fond  heart  warming. 

All  —  all  be  quenched  in  night  ? 


Full  many  a  bud  of  hope  was  wreathing 

About  my  thornless  path, 
In  mellow  tones  of  music  breathing 

Of  all  but  night  and  death  ; 
I  had  not  thought  to  see  them  fading 

And  dying  at  their  birth  — 
To  view  this  cloud  of  darkness  shading 

The  beautiful  of  earth. 


THE  DYING  STUDENT.  91 

Oh  !  there  were  sweetest  whispers  telling 

Of  greatness  and  of  fame  ; 
Of  rapture  in  the  bosom  swelling 

And  of  an  honored  name  ; 
And  how  the  knee  of  genius  bending, 

Should  own  a  deeper  sway, 
And  shouts  of  joy  the  blue  sky  rending 

Bear  higher  deeds  away. 


And  there  were  gentle  voices  finding 

A  way  into  my  soul, — 
Love's  own  sweet  angel,  softly  binding 

My  heart  to  her  control ; 
And  in  my  dreams  of  fame  and  glory 

Beamed  ever  her  meek  eyes  — 
Telling  a  fond  and  pleasant  story 

Of  mingled  smiles  and  sighs. 


That  tone  !     'Twas  music,  ever  hushing 

My  panting  heart  to  rest  — 
And  glorious  dreams  like  sunlight  gushing, 

Thrilling  my  peaceful  breast. 
Those  dreams  like  summer  buds  have  faded  — 

That  tone  hath  died  away  — 
Death's  cloud  my  beaming  skies  hath  shaded, 

And  quenched  the  light  of  day. 


92  THE  DYING  STUDENT. 

I  lay  me  down  faint,  lone  and  weary  • 

No  hand  upon  my  brow  ; 
In  the  dark  valley  cold  and  dreary, 

No  voice  to  cheer  me  now. 
My  life  has  been  a  dream ;  in  vain 

Have  soft  eyes  shed  their  light ; 
Frail  phantoms  of  a  fevered  brain  — 

Their  ray  has  sunk  in  night. 


And  thus  when  earthly  trust  hath  perished, 

And  earthly  joy  hath  fled  — 
When  hopes  my  fond  heart  loved  and  cherished 

Are  lying  with  the  dead  — 
Oh  may  there  not  in  yonder  Heaven 

Be  for  my  brow  a  wreath, 
Whose  fadeless  flowers  shall  ne'er  be  riven 

By  the  rude  hand  of  death  ? 


Father  above !     Wilt  Thou  now  hearken 

Unto  my  feeble  cry  — 
Dispel  the  mists  that  coldly  darken, 

And  dim  my  failing  eye  ! 
I  bless  Thee  —  for  the  cloud  hath  parted 

That  hid  Thy  glorious  face  ; 
Joyful  and  glad,  yet  humble  hearted, 

I  sink  in  thy  embrace  ! 


SOFTLY  THE  MORNING  LIGHT.  —  SONG. 


Softly  the  morning  light 

Steals  o'er  the  land, 
Casting  its  beauty  bright 

On  every  hand  ; 
Gently  the  Summer  breeze, 

Cooling  and  clear, 
Comes  through  the  leafy  trees, 

Most  welcome  here. 


94  SOFTLY  THE  MORNING  LIGHT. SONG. 


II. 


Gaily  the  rippling  stream 

Dances  along 
'Neath  the  sun's  golden  beam, — 

Joyous  its  song. 
Gladly  each  happy  heart 

Welcomes  the  hour, 
When  Nights's  deep  shades  depart 

From  shrub  and  flower. 


in. 

Sadly  this  morning  ray 

Falls  on  thy  grave, 
Thou  who  hast  past  away, 

Noble  and  brave ! 
Little  thou  heedest  now 

These  tears  that  start  — 
Chilly  and  cold  thy  brow  — 

Throbless  thy  heart ! 


A  DIRGE. 


Gently  blow  the  night-breeze 

On  thy  grassy  bed  ! 
Softly  move  the  green  trees 

Over  thy  young  head ! 
Sweetly  sing  the  glad  birds 

Tremblingly  and  low  — 
Murmur  soft  the  bright  rills, 

Weeping  as  they  go  ! 


96  A  DIRGE. 

II. 

Mournfully  the  tall  grass 

Nod  above  thy  breast ! 
Sighing  may  the  winds  pass 

O'er  thy  place  of  rest ! 
Each  low  breath  a  dirge  be 

For  the  young,  the  brave, 
Slumbering  thus  quietly 

In  his  early  grave  ! 


in. 

Spring's  sweet  flowers  shall  bloom,  love, 

Modestly  and  fair, 
O'er  thy  early  tomb,  love, 

Shedding  perfume  there. 
One  shall  linger  near,  love, 

While  the  strength  be  given, 
To  shed  the  silent  tear,  love, 

And  dream  of  thee  and  Heaven. 


THE  SNOW. 


Softly  they  fall  —  the  tiny  flakes   of  snow, 

Upon  the  frozen  ground, 
Making  as  through  the  chilly  air  they  go, 

Not  e'en  the  faintest  sound. 


Say,  noiseless  children  of  a  higher  sphere, 

Born  in  the  far-off  skies, 
Why  do  ye  come  to  wander  meekly  here, 

Then  melt  before  our  eyes  ? 
9 


98  THE  SNOTV. 

Why  do  ye  leave  your  home  far,  far  away. 

And  come  like  pilgrims  here, 
Along  the  stormy  vale  awhile  to  stray,. 

Then  fade  and  disappear  ? 


Methinks  your  home,  far  up  in  yonder  skyr 

Must  be  serene  and  bright ; 
Then  wherefore  did  ye  wander  —  tell  me  whyr 

From  those  pure  realms  of  light  ? 


Oh,  did  ye  think  to  find  upon  this  earth 

A  fair  and  thornless  path  ? 
To  listen  to  the  song  of  joy  and  mirthr 

And  hear  no  groan  of  death  ? 


Or  did  ye  think  to  nestle  in  the  heart 

Of  flowers  that  never  die  — 
To  see  no  tears  from  Beauty's  eyelids  start 

To  list  no  heaving  sigh  ? 


THE  SNOW. 


Oh  tell  me,  ye  so  light,  and  fair,  and  free, 

Thus  dropping  from  above, 
Why  from  those  regions  do  ye  madly  flee, 

And  leave  your  home  of  love  ? 


No  voice,  no  sound,  ye  give  unto  my  cry ; 

But,  by  the  light  winds  tost, 
All  mute  upon  the  ground,  awhile  ye  lie, 

Then  to  my  eyes  are  lost. 


Thus  vanish  from  the  fond  and  trusting  heart 

The  hopes  that  nestle  there  ; 
Thus  all  the  Heaven-born  dreams  of  life  depart, 

And  leave  a  load  of  care. 


THE  EXILE'S  LAMENT. 


I  pine  for  the  light  of  my  own  blue  skies, 

For  my  own  soft,  murmuring  rills ; 
I  miss  the  buds  of  a  thousand  dyes 

That  bloom  on  my  native  hills. 
I  long  to  hear,  as  I  oft  have  heard, 

At  the  quiet  hour  of  Even, 
The  notes  of  that  pensive,  gentle  bird 

That  came  like  a  breath  from  Heaven. 


THE  EXILE'S  LAMENT.  101 

I  long  for  the  voice,  on  my  childhood's  ear 

That  fell,  in  its  melody, 
When  the  mother  that  loved  me  knelt  for  prayer 

In  her  angel  purity. 
Oh !  for  one  more  look  from  those  holy  eyes  — 

One  grasp  from  that  mother's  hand  — 
One  breath  'neath  the  pure  and  sunny  skies 

That  smile  on  my  native  land ! 


In  a  strange,  strange  clime,  with  no  kind  tone 

To  soothe  and  bless  my  heart, 
I  dwell  in  my  wildwood  home  alone  — 

From  the  race  of  mankind  apart. 
There  is  majesty  here  —  for  the  giant  trees 

In  their  pride  and  glory  stand ; 
But  I  listen  in  vain  for  the  murmuring  breeze 

Of  my  own  dear  native  land. 


Here  is  grandeur,  too  —  for  the  mountains  rise 

In  their  bold  and  mighty  hight, 
'Till  their  dark  brows  meet  the  bending  skies, 

And  are  lost  to  the  wondering  sight. 
And  the  streams  bear  down  the  cataract's  foam 

In  motion  and  might  sublime, 
But  give  me  the  hills  of  my  native  home, 

The  streams  of  my  own  bright  .clime  ! 

9* 


- 

102  THE  EXILE'S  LAMENT. 

Oh  !  give  me  that  cot  with  its  cheerful  hearth, 

And  the  dear  ones  all  about  it : 
For  I  wander  a  pilgrim  over  the  earth, 

Unloving,  unblest,  without  it. 
And  give  me  the  hills  by  the  soft  winds  fanned, 

The  meadows  in  wild  flowers  drest  — 
The  murmuring  streams  of  my  native  land  — 

That  my  heart  from  its  load  may  rest ! 


WE  HAVE  MET. 


We  have  met  —  we  have  met  —  and  he  knew  me  not ; 
We  met  in  that  beautiful,  rural  spot 
Where  we  parted  last !     I  can  never  forget 
The  look  he  then  gave  me  —  it  haunts  me  yet. 


He  was  pale  —  so  pale  —  and  his  noble  brow 
Was  as  calm  as  a  bank  of  moonlit  snow  ; 
While  his  eye  —  that  deep  and  melting  eye  — 
Spoke  more  —  far  more  —  than  his  stifled  sigh. 


104  WE  HAVE  MET. 

His  voice  was  sad,  and  his  words  were  few, 

As  he  grasped  my  hand  and  breathed  his  adieu ; 

Then  he  turned  away,  but  he  little  thought 

Of  the  grief  that  the  parting  word  had  wrought. 


I  watched  his  figure  in  mute  despair, 

As  it  passed  away,  and  left  me  there ; 

I  knew  he  was  gone,  and  that  with  him  had  flown 

The  peace  from  my  bosom  —  that  I  was  alone. 


And  years  have  passed  by  since  that  fearful  night, 
But  no  comfort  has  come  with  their  rapid  flight ; 
I  have  smiled,  and  none  knew  how  cold  and  drear 
Was  the  heart  that  was  beating  in  anguish  here  ! 


Aye,  he  knows  me  not !     But  once,  as  a  sigh 
Escaped  from  my  bosom,  I  saw  that  his  eye 
Was  gazing  upon  me.     He  started  —  came  near  — 
But  I  turned  from  him  blushing,  to  hide  a  tear. 


WE  HAVE  MET.  105 

That  look !     How  it  thrilled  to  my  very  soul, 

And  how  thoughts  of  the  past,  all  unheeding  control, 

Came  to  tell  me  of  days  and  of  years  gone  by, 

Ere  my  eyes  had  wept  thus,  or  my  heart  learned  to  sigh. 


I  know  not  but  now,  in  his  manhood  and  pride, 
He  clasps  to  his  bosom  a  beautiful  bride, — • 
That  the  past  is  forgotten  —  my  memory  fled  — 
Or  only  recalled  with  his  thoughts  of  the  dead. 


THE  BRIDE'S  ADIEU  TO  HER  MOTHER. 


Mother  adieu,  —  strange  thoughts  are  rushing 

Wildly  across  my  brain, 
And  my  young  cheek  and  brow  are  flushing 

With  mingled  joy  and  pain  ; 
Joy,  that  his  eyes  in  starry  splendor, 

With  their  deep  g'ance  of  pride, 
And  their  own  look,  thrilling  and  tender, 

Are  cast  upon  his  bride. 


THE  BRIDE'S  ADIEU  TO  HER  MOTHER.  107 

Joy  that  I  hear  his  low  tones  breathing 

Of  happiness  to  come  — 
Of  the  rich  vines  that  will  be  wreathing 

About  our  cottage  home  ; 
And  the  dear  birds  with  golden  winglets 

And  song  will  linger  there, 
And  the  soft  winds  will  lift  the  ringlets 

Back  from  his  forehead  fair  ? 


And  the  low  murmur  of  the  river 

Will  come  up  to  the  door, 
While  the  bright  sunbeams  gaily  quiver 

Its  azure  surface  o'er ; 
And  mother,  at  the  quiet  even, 

When  stars  are  in  the  sky, 
It  will  be  sweet  'neath  the  blue  heaven, 

To  dream  of  thy  mild  eye  ! 


But  pain  —  dear  mother,  amid  the  gleaming 

Of  all  this  starry  light ; 
And  'mid  the  blessed  visions  teeming 

Within  my  brain  to-night, 
A  painful  shadow  lies  enshrouding 

The  luster  of  their  beams, 
And  with  its  coldness  darkly  clouding 

My  fond  heart's  warmest  dreams  ! 


108  THE  BRIDE'S  ADIEU  TO  HER  MOTHER. 

To  leave  thee  in  thy  lonely  sorrow, 

With  clouds  upon  thy  brow  — 
'Tis  this  alone  that  makes  me  borrow 

A  thought  of  anguish  now  ; 
As  by  the  loved  side  of  another 

I  pass  along  life's  track, 
To  this  dear  home  — to  thee  ,  sweet  mother, 

My  soul  will  wander  back  ! 


And  often  in  the  night's  deep  stillness, 

When  dreams  are  in  my  heart, 
Amid  their  light  all  softly  stealing 

My  mother's  tones  shall  start ! 
Her  form  shall  rise  among  the  visions 

That  sweep  my  spirit  o'er, 
And  I  shall  gaze  into  the  fullness 

Of  her  blue  eye  once  more  ! 


Mother,  adieu,  —  one  burning  tear  drop 

I  lave  upon  my  cheek, 
To  tell  the  sorrow  I  am  feeling, 

Too  deep  for  words  to  speak  ; 
Even  his  voice  cannot  beguile  me 

From  thee  so  fond  and  true ; 
I  bear  thine  image,  dearest  mother, 

Within  my  soul  —  adieu  ! 


THE  BLIND  GIRL. 


Sweet  brother,  lay  your  hand  upon  my  brow, 

And  lead  me  gently  forth  ; 
They  say  the  gay  Spring  time  is  with  us  now, 

And  that  the  smiling  earth 
Awakes  to  life  and  beauty.     I  can  feel 

Its  soft  and  fragrant  sigh 
Float  over  my  pale  cheek,  and  whispers  steal 

Down  from  the  azure  sky. 
10 


110  THE  BLIND  GIRL. 

Oh  !  brother :   are  they  angel  voices,  come 

To  breathe  of  hope  and  love, 
And  do  their  white  wings  o'er  the  glad  earth  roamr 

From  the  pure  land  above  ? 
Say,  brother  —  do  you  see  their  gleaming  eyes 

Look  out  among  the  flowers  ? 
And  are  they  like  the  stars,  whose  radiance  lies 

Far  from  this  world  of  ours  ? 


Ah !  tell  me,  brother,  what  the  flowers  are  like  I 

Are  their  bright  lips  all  mute  ? 
I  sometimes  think  they  speak,  as  when  you  strike 

The  strings  of  your  loved  lute  ! 
A  breath  is  borne  along  unto  my  soul, 

In  these  calm,  dreamy  hours, 
And  oh,  I  fancy,  as  its  sweet  strains  roll, 

I  hear  the  singing  flowers ! 


What  is  the  tiny  bird 
That  glances  by  on  light  and  airy  wing  ? 

This  morn  my  spirit  heard 
Its  low,  glad  voice  ;  and  almost  worshiping, 

My  hand  stretched  forth  to  clasp 
The  fairy  thing ;  but  softer  came  the  strain, 

And  yet  my  heart  could  grasp 
Each  thrilling  note,  and  hear  it  o'er  again ! 


THE  BLIND  GIRL.  Ill 

Sometimes  we  gently  sail 
Upon  the  lake's  fair  bosom,  and  I  bow 

My  forehead  cold  and  pale, 
To  listen  to  its  murmurs  soft  and  low. 

Its  waters  clear  and  bright  — 
What  are  they  like,  and  wherefore  do  they  sing.? 

You  say  the  stars  at  night 
Their  glance  of  love  across  the  blue  wave  fling ! 


Is  music  everywhere  ? 
I  hear  it  in  the  streamlet's  laughing  notes, 

And  in  the  summer  air, 
And  round  my  soul  its  strain  forever  floats  ! 

And  beauty  —  you  have  said 
It  dwells  upon  the  earth  and  in  the  sky  ; 

And  often  you  have  led 
My  soul  where  Beauty's  angel  wanders  by. 


I  feel  its  presence,  though 
No  outward  vision  blesses  my  sealed  eyes  : 

But  deep,  and  still,  and  low 
Within  my  soul,  its  form  in  glory  lies ! 

It  is  enough  to  know 
The  world  is  beautiful  —  to  feel  the  breath 

Of  music  on  my  brow, 
And  never  see  the  flowers  grow  cold  in  death. 


112  THE  BLIND  GIRL. 

There  is  a  land,  you  say, 
Where  none  are  blind, —  more  lovely  far  than  this  ; 

Each  morn  and  night  I  pray 
That  we  may  one  day  reach  that  home  of  bliss. 

And  we  shall  see  each  other, 
And  mingle  our  glad  songs  together  there  ; 

Oh,  I  shall  know  my  brother, 
With  the  bright  crown  upon  his  forehead  fair ! 


TO  ALICE. 


I've  sat  me  down  within  this  pleasant  shade, 

Where  the  green  ivy  twines  above  my  head, 
And  through  its  leaves  I  see  the  sunlight  fade 

From  the  far  hill  side,  and  the  floweret's  bed ; 
And  in  the  soft  and  azure  depths  of  heaven 

Gleams  a  pure  star  —  the  earliest  and  the  best 
A  gem  upon  the  beauteous  brow  of  Even, 

And  lovely  as  an  island  of  the  blest 
10* 


114  TO  ALICE. 

In  the  far  distance  I  can  hear  the  murmur 

Of  a  bright  rill  that  creeps  through  beds  of  flowers, 
And  voices  that  are  heard  alone  in  Summer  — 

That  bless  alone  its  pleasant  twilight  hours  ; 
And  they  are  telling,  in  a  whisper  winning 

And  gentle  as  thy  own  soft  tones  of  yore, 
Of  thee,  beloved  and  absent  one,  beginning 

At  thy  bright  youth,  and  breathing  o'er  and  o'er 
Thy  virtues  and  thy  loveliness.  *  *  * 


And  thou  art  with  me  now ;  Fancy  can  see 

Thy  gentle  forehead's  pure  and  spotless  snow, 
And  the  long  curls  that  gracefully  and  free 

Back  from  their  shadows  on  the  light  winds  flow  ; 
And  thy  soft  eyes  —  not  the  deep  vault  above 

Gleaming  with  diamonds  —  has  a  richer  blue, 
Or  bends  above  us  with  a  holier  love, 

Or  beams  more  kindly,  tenderly  and  true ! 

Alice,  my  own,  in  the  dear  hours  of  childhood, 

When  not  a  cloud  had  darkened  our  bright  skies, 
We  wandered  thro'  the  green  and  blooming  wild-wood, 

And  looked  around  with  glad  and  tearless  eyes : 
Thy  tone  was  unto  me  a  melody, 

Sweeter  by  far  than  voice  of  singing  bird, 
And  when  it  sounded,  laughingly  and  free, 

My  answering  soul  with  gladness  deep  was  stirred. 


TO  ALICE.  115 

I  twined  the  orange  blossoms  'mid  thy  curls. 

And  saw  the  flush  that  bounded  to  thy  cheek, 
And  mingled  with  the  lily,  'neath  the  pearls 

That  shone  above  thy  brow.     I  heard  tfcee  speak 
In  low  and  faltering  voice  that  little  word 

That  bound  thee  to  another,  fond  and  brave, 
And  proud  to  bear  the  young  and  timid  bird 

In  his  own  bosom,  far  across  the  wave. 


Long  years  have  passed  —  for  thee  the  sunlight  gleam 

Hath  ever  been  most  warm,  and  bright,  and  fair ; 
And  thou  hast  never  seen  thy  heart's  fond  dream. — 

Life's  star  of  hope  —  go  down  in  dark  despair. 
The  flowers,  that  heaven  has  scattered  light  and  free 

Along  thy  sunny  path,  have  ne'er  been  wet 
With  tears  of  bitterness,  and  joyously 

Thy  music-tones  have  ever  sounded  yet. 


Long  be  the  skie^  thus  cloudless  o'er  thy  head, 

My  own  bright  friend !     And  distant  be  the  day 
When  Life's  fair  wreath  its  fragrance  shall  have  shed, 

And  all  its  freshness  shall  have  passed  away  ! 
For  me  —  I  gather  from  the  withered  flowers, 

That  lie  within  the  far  and  shadowed  past. 
Enough  of  joy  to  make  the  peaceful  hours 

Full  many  a  ray  into  the  future  cast. 


SONG  OF  SPRING. 


"  I  come!  I  come!  ye  have  called  me  long : 
I  come  o'er  the  mountains  with  light  and  pong. 


T  come,  I  come  to  the  sleeping  earth, 

With  a  wing  of  gold,  and  a  balmy  breath ; 
I  come  with  a  tone  of  joyous  mirth, 

Piercing  the  regions  of  gloom  and  death  ! 
I  have  laid  a  finger  on  ice-bound  streams, 

And  they  smile  to  the  smiling  skies  above, 
While  deep  in  their  waters  a  blue  eye  gleams. 

With  a  glance  of  joy  and  a  look  of  love. 


SONG  OF  SPRING.  117 


II. 


I  come,  I  come  from  a  far-off  land, 

And  my  brow  is  beaming  with  rarest  flowers  ; 
I  hold  a  wreath  in  my  out-stretched  hand 

To  strew  over  hills,  and  dales,  and  bowers ! 
I  will  breathe  on  the  meadows,  cold  and  bare, 

And  the  emerald  turf  will  spring  to  birth, 
While  amid  the  greenness  blossoms  fair 

Will  lie  like  a  carpet  over  the  earth. 


in. 


I  come,  I  come  !  and  the  young  leaves  start 

On  the  proud  old  trees,  and  on  shrub  and  hedge, 
And  the  lilies  with  timid  and  folded  heart 

Lie  dreamily  over  the  streamlet's  edge. 
The  violets  hide  their  dewy  eyes, 

And  fold  in  their  blue  leaves  a  golden  beam, 
And  tones  from  the  far-off,  laughing  skies 

Seem  borne  on  the  light  breath  of  bird  and  stream. 


IV. 


I  come,  I  come  with  a  fairy's  tread  — 
Silent,  yet  musical  in  my  mirth  — 

I  have  twined  a  wreath  for  the  youthful  head, 
I  have  wakened  a  smile  on  the  sober  earth. 


118  SONG  OF  SPRING. 

In  my  eye  no  trace  of  sorrow  dwells ; 

On  my  fair  young  brow  no  shadow  falls ; 
I  throw  a  gleam  into  lonely  cells, 

And  sunshine  on  lordly  mansion  walls. 


v. 


I  know  that  since  last  I  wandered  here, 

With  my  glad  young  face,  and  my  smiling  eye, 
With  the  heaving  breast  and  scalding  tear 

Ye  have  seen  full  many  a  fair  one  die  : 
And  I  look  in  vain  for  the  rosy  cheek 

That  was  wont  to  dimple  beneath  my  breath, 
And  I  know,  though  I  hear  no  voices  speak, 

That  they  lie  in  the  icy  arms  of  death. 


VI. 


But  I  will  not  weep,  for  I  come  to  sing 

No  tones  of  wo  to  the  drooping  heart : 
In  my  glad,  bright  way  only  flowers  will  spring 

Beneath  my  touch  only  joy  will  start. 
I  come,  I  come  to  the  waiting  earth, 

With  a  golden  dream  and  fragrant  breath, 
I  come  with  a  voice  of  joy  and  mirth  — 

Piercing  the  regions  of  gloom  and  death ! 


TO  LIZZIE. 


Thou  art  like  a  flower  of  Spring, 

When  it  lifts  its  eye  — 
Humid  with  the  shining  dew  — 

Smiling  to  the  sky. 
Like  a  violet,  with  the  love 

Stealing  from  its  heart, 
In  rirh  gushes  of  perfume, 

Darling  one,  thou  art. 


120  TO  LIZZIK. 


II. 


Thou  art  like  a  golden  dream, 

Or  a  tone  of  love, 
Or  a  soft  and  radiant  gleam 

Trembling  from  above ; — 
Like  some  spirit-whisperings 

From  the  distant  skies  — 
Like  all  fair  and  blessed  things 

That  we  fondly  prize. 


in. 

But  thy  heart,  my  love,  thy  heart, 

With  its  trust  and  truth  — 
It  is  brighter  than  the  flowers 

That  adorn  thy  youth. 
'Tis  a  gem  of  priceless  worth, 

With  it's  holy  love, 
Drinking  gladness  from  the  earth  - 

Sunshine  from  above. 


TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD. 


Sleep,  child,  for  thy  dreams  are  sweet  — 
The  dreams  of  thy  life's  bright  dawn  - 

No  evil  has  yet  thy  feet 

From  the  paths  of  virtue  drawn. 


Sleep  on  !     for  thy  morning  sky 
Is  clear  and  cloudlessly  fair ; 

No  tear  has  come  to  thy  eye  — 
To  thy  peaceful  breast  no  care. 
11 


122  TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD". 

Aye,  sleep !  for  the  flowers  that  deck 
Thy  pathway  are  thornless  now  'f 

Their  brightness  is  on  thy  cheek, 
And  their  light  upon  thy  brow. 


Oh  sweet  and  pure  the  dream 
That  filleth  thy  infant  heartr 

And  happy  the  smiling  beam 
That  hath  left  thy  lips  apart  I 


It  dimples  thy  velvet  cheek, 
And  lingers  around  thy  eyes ; 

Hast  though  heard  an  angel  speak? 
Stooping  from  paradise  ? 


That  sweet  dream  will  soon  be  o'er, 
And  soon  will  the  dark  day  come, 

When  thy  feet  shall  nevermore 
In  a  peaceful  pathway  roam ; — 


TO  A  SLEEPING  CHILD.  123 

When  the  sky  above  thy  head 

Shall  be  clouded,  dark  and  drear,  — 

When  thy  dreams  shall  all  have  fled, 
And  thou  be  a  mourner  here. 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE. 


Deceive  her  not ! 

She  has  left  a  mother's  yearning  breast 
Which  has  often  been  her  place  of  rest ; 
She  has  clasped  full  many  a  trembling  hand 
Among  the  happy  and  youthful  band, 
And  turned  from  all  her  childhood  knew, 
With  her  heart  of  love  and  devotion  true, 

To  share  thy  lot. 


THE  YOUNG  WIFE.  125 

Speak  gently  now  I 

For  a  tear-drop  dims  her  beaming  eye, 
And  her  bosom  heaves  with  a  struggling  sigh ; 
Yet,  oh !  'tis  not  that  she  loves  thee  less  — 
That  thy  low,  fond  tones  have  ceased  to  bless  — 
But  her  heart  must  yearn  in  its  trust  and  truth, 
For  the  dear,  bright  scenes  of  her  early  youth, 

And  tears  will  flow. 


She  turns  away  ! 

And  her  heart  will  fondly  cling  to  thee, 
Like  the  ivy  about  the  forest  tree ; 
Should  sorrow  or  sickness  lay  thee  low, 
She  will  kindly  soothe  thy  aching  brow  ; 
She  will  linger  with  patient,  noiseless  tread, 
And  a  whisper  of  hope  about  thy  bed, 

By  night  and  day. 


Oh,  love  her  well ! 

Thou  canst  not  know  in  her  trembling  heart, 
The  hopes  and  fears  that  unbidden  start ; 
Thou  canst  not  know  how  her  every  thought 
And  feeling  with  thee  and  thy  love  are  fraught 
And  how  she  would  even  die  to  save 
Thy  form  from  the  cold  and  silent  grave, 

Thou  canst  not  tell. 


WALOLULA.  —  A  TALE. 


A  Summer  morn  !     Oh  never  shone 

The  sun  upon  a  fairer  scene  ! 
He  comes  with  beauty  all  his  own, 

Piercing  the  thin  and  gauzy  screen 
That  lies  upon  the  mountain's  hight. 

And  giving  to  the  snowy  cloud 
That  floats  along,  a  golden  light  — 

The  fleecy  thing  a  robe  to  shroud 
The  glory  of  the  rising  king  — 
And  o'er  his  face  a  softening  shade  to  fling. 


WALOLULA.  —  A  TALE.  1  27 


II. 


The  sky  above  is  darkly  blue  — 

A  throne  of  azure  —  with  a  star, 
A  single  star,  of  silver  hue, 

Burning  in  brilliancy  afar  — 
And  looking,  in  the  dewy  light, 

A  ray  from  other  world  than  this  — 
An  isle  of  beauty  fair  and  bright  — 

A  radiant  seat  of  peaceful  bliss  — 
A  beam  from  Heaven's  own  glory  hurled  — 
An  index  to  that  higher,  brighter  world. 


in. 


The  flowers  look  up  with  tearful  eye, 

From  the  low  bed  where  they  have  slept 
Through  the  dark  hours,  and  silently 

Breathe  out  the  fragrance  they  have  kept ; 
And  like  to  incense  pure  and  sweet, 

It  floats  upon  the  dewy  air  — 
An  offering  of  praise  most  meet 

For  Heaven's  benignant  keep  and  care. 
The  flowers  —  the  frail  and  gentle  flowers  — 
In  beauty  smile  through  groves,  and  fields,  and  bowers. 


128  WALOLULA. —  A  TALE. 


IV. 


I  sit  within  a  light  canoe, 

With  dripping  oars  laid  side  by  side, 
While  o'er  the  river,  calm  and  blue, 

I  let  the  slight  boat  gently  glide. 
My  thoughts  are  of  that  distant  isle  — 

That  little  speck  of  golden  green  — 
Whose  wave-washed  borders  glance  and  smile 

Beneath  the  morning's  pleasant  sheen  ; 
And  of  a  cot  among  the  trees  — 
A  grave,  whose  grass  is  swept  by  this  low  breeze. 


v. 


Fair  buds  are  bursting  in  the  light, 

Flower-wreaths  are  twining  o'er  the  cot 
That  crumbles  daily  from  the  sight  — 

Its  mouldering  walls  by  all  forgot ; 
And  on  that  lonely,  humble  grave, 

The  ground-bird  builds  her  sheltered  nest, 
While  rank-grown  grass  and  wild  flowers  wave 

Unnoticed  o'er  a  throbless  breast. 
A  child  !  I  wept  to  hear  the  tale 
About  the  isle,  from  one  who  knew  it  well. 


WALOLULA. A  TALE.  129 


VI. 


An  Indian  chief  with  lordly  brow, 

With  eagle  eye  and  fearless  heart, 
Dwelt  there,  and  moored  his  light  canoe 

'Neath  those  tall  elms  that  stand  apart, 
And  throw  their  long,  deep  shadows  o'er 

The  waters,  shading  the  low  grave 
That  rises  from  the  verdant  shore. 

He  had  no  friend,  no  comrade,  save 
A  dark-eyed  girl  that  to  his  heart 

Was  bound  by  ties  that  death  alone  could  part 


VII. 


She  was  a  brave  and  noble  child, 

With  lofty  brow  and  velvet  cheek, 
And  black  hair,  hung  in  masses  wild 

Upon  her  tawny  breast  and  neck  ; 
And  in^  her  large  and  brilliant  eye, 

Half  shadowed  by  its  lash  of  jet, 
A  world  of  thought  lay  dreamily  — 

A  soul  of  tenderness  was  set : 
Sweet  Walolula  loved  to  greet, 
At  close  of  day,  her  father's  homeward  feet. 


130  AVALOLULA.  A  TALE. 


VIII. 


Before  the  sun  had  kissed  the  dew 

From  bending  leaf  and  drooping  flower, 
And  the  bright  dawn  looked  through  the  blue 

On  shrub  and  tree,  and  silent  bower, 
The  chieftain  would  unmoor  the  boat 

Beneath  the  shade,  and  with  a  smile 
For  darling  Walolula,  float 

In  silence  from  his  beauteous  isle ; 
Nor  come  again,  with  words  of  love 

To  bless  his  child,  'till  stars  were  bright  above. 


IX. 


Sweet  Walolula  !     She  would  roam 

All  day  beneath  the  tall  old  trees 
That  stood  about  her  lowly  home  — 

Their  rude  boughs  bending  in  the  breeze  — 
And  pluck  the  bright-eyed  flowers  that  grew 

Within  their  shadows  fresh  and  fair,  — 
Dripping  with  wealth  of  morning  dew 

Or  breathing  sweetly  on  the  air  — 
The  soft,  the  balmy  Summer  air, 
That  swayed  with  weight  of  music  rich  and  rare. 


AVALOLULA. A  TALE.  131 


X. 


At  night,  when  in  the  gaudy  West, 

The  Sun  had  left  his  smile  of  light, 
And  on  the  river's  calm,  blue  breast 

His  last  rays  lingered,  fair  and  bright. 
The  maiden  with  her  long,  black  hair, 

Streaming  beneath  a  crown  of  flowers, 
Would  hasten  to  the  green  shore,  where 

The  wild  vines  wove  their  leafy  bowers, 
And  with  hushed  heart  and  bending  ear, 
Listen,  her  sire's  returning  oar  to  hear. 


XI. 


And  like  a  bird  on  swift,  light  wing. 

The  chieftain's  slight  canoe  would  skim 
The  golden  waves  —  a  fairy  thing  — 

That  danced  and  sparkled  to  its  brim. 
Then  from  his  dark  eyes,  deep  and  wild. 

The  furious  light  would  disappear, 
And  he  would  turn  to  clasp  his  child, 

And  leave  upon  her  cheek  a  tear. 
Then,  with  his  fierce  thoughts  all  forgot, 
Seek  with  his  worshiped  dove  the  lonely  cot. 


132  WALOLULA. A  TALE. 

XII. 

It  was  a  fair,  still  eve  in  June  — 

The  roses  bent  beneath  the  dew, 
The  night-bird  sang  a  plaintive  tune. 

The  moon  was  on  its  path  of  blue, 
And  softly  o'er  the  sleeping  stream 

Her  soft  and  quivering  radiance  swept, 
And  flowers,  beneath  the  silver  beam, 

Upon  its  smooth  breast  sweetly  slept. 
No  murmur  broke  the  stillness  there, 
Save,  on  the  shore,  the  plash  of  waters  fair. 


XIII. 

Upon  the  green  *  nd  dewy  shore, 

With  garland  crashed  beneath  her  feet, 

And  her  long  tresses  streaming  o'er 

The  wave,  —  her  wild  eyes  strained  to  greet 

The  chieftain's  boat  —  the  maiden  stood. 

• 

Her  cheek  was  pale,  her  brow  was  chilled. 
And  through  that  deep  and  lonely  wood 

Her  clear  voice  rang  in  anguish  wild  : 
"  My  father !     Oh  my  father  !     Come  ! 
For  Walolula  waits  to  lead  thee  home  ! " 


WALOLULA. A  TALE.  133 


XIV. 

At  last,  on  the  deep  and  distant  blue 

A  speck  of  black  came  floating  o'er, 
And  faster  sped  the  light  canoe, 

And  neared  the  darkly  shaded  shore. 
But  oh !  upon  that  narrow  seat 

No  chieftain  sat,  with  beaming  eye 
And  waiting  arms  out-stretched  to  greet 

The  child,  who,  with  a  piercing  cry, 
Fell  forward  with  her  small  hands  prest 
In  agony  upon  her  pulseless  breast. 


XT. 


The  morning  threw  its  golden  light 

Upon  the  maiden's  raven  hair, 
That,  heavy  with  the  dews  of  night, 

Hung  like  a  shroud  about  her  there. 
The  soft  winds  kissed  her  death-pale  cheek, 

% 

And  breathed  upon  her  chilly  brow, 
But  oh  !  no  words  of  love  might  speak 

To  her  crushed  heart  their  accents  now. 
Her  noble  sire  had  found  a  grave  — 
A  dreamless  sleep  beneath  the  heaving  wave. 
12 


134  WALOLULA.  —  A  TALE, 

XVI. 

Poor  Walolula !     When  at  last, 

The  bright  birds  sang  above  her  head, 
And  the  deep  lethargy  had  passed 

That  bound  her  to  her  roofless  bed, 
She  gazed  about  her,  with  a  wild 

And  vacant  stare  in  her  dark  eyes,  — 
Then  laid  her  forehead  —  as  a  child 

Upon  its  mother's  bosom  lies  — 
On  the  green  moss,  and  strove  to  deem 
The  horror  of  that  night  an  idle  dream. 


XVII, 


But  no  !     It  must  be  so  !     'Twas  there  — 

That  empty  boat :  no  father's  tone 
Was  by  to  hush  her  wild  despair  : 

She  felt  —  she  knew  she  was  alone  ; 
And,  with  a  shrill  and  frenzied  shriek, 

She  started  to  her  tottering  feet, 
Then  dashed  the  wet  hair  from  her  cheek. 

And  in  the  light  boat  took  her  seat. 
Then,  with  a  strange  and  hollow  smile 
Upon  her  lips,  she  floated  from  the  isle. 


WALOLULA. — A  TALE.  135 


XVIII. 


All  day  the  Indian  maiden  sped 

Across  the  waves  her  light  canoe ; 
The  sun  on  her  uncovered  head 

Its  burning  beams  relentless  threw ; 
And  back  upon  the  roving  breeze 

Streamed  like  a  cloud  her  raven  hair. 
Still,  still,  by  shadowy  banks  and  trees, 

With  that  strange  smile  of  wild  despair, 
She  floated  onward,  her  dark  eyes 
Fixed  with  their  maniac  gaze  upon  the  skies 


XIX. 


At  even,  when  the  gentle  dew 

Was  falling,  and  the  day  was  o'er, 
With  trembling  hands  her  light  canoe 

She  drew  upon  the  silent  shore ; 
And  laid  her  down  beneath  the  light 

That  showered  in  glory  through  the  grove, 
And  o'er  the  solemn  shade  of  night 

Its  wreaths  of  silver  softly  wove. 
She  laid  her  down,  and  on  her  breast, 
Folding  her  weary  fingers,  sank  to  rest. 


136  WALOLULA.  —  A  TALE. 


XX. 


At  early  dawn,  the  lonely  girl 

Launched  forth  again  from  the  green  shore 
The  water  in  festoons  of  pearl 

Dripping  as  rose  her  fairy  oar : 
And  onward  through  the  long,  long  day 

She  floated  like  a  thing  of  air,  — 
The  soft  and  wanton  breeze  at  play 

With  the  dark  tresses  of  her  hair, 
And  in  her  large  and  tearless  eye 
That  world  of  bitter  thought  and  misery. 


XXI. 


The  days  —  the  months  —  went  swiftly  on, 

And  Autumn  with  its  blight  was  nigh ; 
But  Walolula's  hope  was  gone  — 

The  brightness  from  her  drooping  eye. 
Each  day  had  seen  upon  the  breast 

Of  this  calm  stream  her  light  canoe  — 
Each  night  had  seen  her  quiet  rest 

Upon  the  green  bank,  wet  with  dew. 
But  she  had  faded,  and  a  change 
Had  come  upon  the  maiden,  sad,  and  strange. 


WALOLULA.  —  A  TALE.  137 

XXII. 

No  more  her  thrilling  song  was  heard, 

In  tones  that  made  the  listener  start, 
As  if  the  voice  of  some  strange  bird 

Had  touched,  and  thrilled  his  inmost  heart. 
From  her  pale  lip  the  smile  had  fled, 

Like  sunlight  from  a  cloud  in  heaven, 
And  slow  and  heavy  was  her  tread. 

Poor  child !     The  only  tie  was  riven 
That  bound  her  guiltless  soul  below, 
And  wildly  had  she  prayed  that  she  might  go. 


XXIII. 


It  was  a  quiet,  Autumn  night, 

Warm  and  serene,  and  sweetly  fair  ; 
The  moon  was  up,  and  her  mild  light 

Trembled  upon  the  balmy  air. 
The  soft  wind  sighed  among  the  trees 

A  dirge  o'er  Beauty's  withered  brow, 
For  sad  and  plaintive  was  the  breeze 

That  stirred  the  changing  foliage  now ; 
And  flowers  bent  low  with  tearful  eye, 
And  breathed  upon  the  air  their  dying  sigh. 
•12 


138  WALOLTJLA.  —  A    TALE. 

XXIV. 

A  white-haired  man  beneath  the  light 

Of  that  soft  moon  had  floated  far, 
And  gazing  on  the  mirrored  light 

Of  silver  cloud  and  shining  star, 
The  forms  of  youth  had  come  again 

To  bless  his  old  and  fading  eyes, 
And,  to  his  heart,  a  soothing  strain, 

Like  music  from  the  far-off  skies. 
And  he  had  let  his  wayward  boat 
Long  miles  upon  the  river's  bosom  float. 


XXV. 

His  hands  were  folded,  and  a  smile 

Upon  his  noble  features  played, 
When,  suddenly,  he  saw  that  isle, 

And  passed  within  its  somber  shade. 
He  paused  to  gaze  around.     Before 

That  quiet  eve,  he  had  not  known 
Of  such  a  calm  and  peaceful  shore  — 

Of  that  sweet  island  all  alone  — 
Of  the  old  trees  that  lifted  there 
Their  giant  limbs  above  a  scene  so  fair. 


WALOLULA. —  A  TALE.  139 

XXVI. 

And  there,  within  the  deepening  shade  ; 

Was  moored  a  bark,  as  frail  and  light 
As  if  some  fairy  hand  had  made, 

And  placed  it  in  those  waters  bright. 
The  old  man  sat  beneath  the  dream 

That  thus  had  bound  him,  gazing  through 
The  dim  groves  where  a  silver  gleam 

Shot  momently  across  the  dew 
That  lay  upon  the  grass,  when  near, 
A  voice,  all  sweetness,  fell  upon  his  ear : 


1. 


"Thou  fullest  from  thy  radiant  home 

Far  up  in  yon  blue  heaven  ! 
Thou  callest,  father,  and  I  come, 

This  sweet  and  quiet  even. 
I  plume  my  weary  wings  for  flight 

To  join  thee,  father  dear, 
For  since  that  dark  and  awful  night 

I  have  been  cheerless  here. 


140  WALOLULA.  —  A  TALE. 

2. 


"•  Oh !  long  and  drear  have  been  the  hours, 

And  sad  and  lone  my  soul ; 
I've  watched  for  thee  among  the  flowers, 

And  where  the  waters  roll. 
As  to  my  wild  and  anxious  cry 

Thou  gavest  back  no  tone, 
Oh !  father,  how  I  longed  to  die  — 

So  weary,  sad  and  lone ! 


"  But  I  have  seen  thee,  father  dear, 

I've  often  heard  thee  speak, — 
In  my  fond  dreams  thou  hast  been  here, 

And  bent  above  my  cheek. 
And  I  have  heard  thy  words  of  love  — 

Gentle,  and  soft,  and  true  — 
And  seen  thy  dear  eyes  far  above  — 

Far  in  the  depths  of  blue. 


WALOLITLA. — A  TALE. 


"  And  she  was  with  thee,  she  who  blest 

My  infant  years :  she  smiled 
So  sweetly  from  her  far-off  rest 

Upon  her  weary  child  ! 
She  told  me  that  I  soon  should  be 

With  the  Great  Spirit,  where 
My  soul  might  wander  glad  and  free, 

'Mid  fadeless  flowers  and  fair. 


5. 


"  And  now  I  hear  her  voice  with  thine, 

Bidding  my  soul  arise : 
Amid  those  glittering  stars  that  shine, 

I  see  your  angel  eyes  ! 
I  hear  your  whisper  in  the  sigh 

That  lingers  on  my  brow, 
Oh !  father  !  mother !  in  the  sky 

I  go  to  meet  you  now  ! " 


142  WALOLULA.  A  TALE. 


XXVII. 


The  faint  notes  died  upon  the  air, 

But  still  within  that  old  man's  heart 
They  lingered,  in  their  music  rare, 

Beyond  the  weaker  power  of  art. 
He  held  his  breath  in  vain  to  hear 

The  melting,  thrilling  strain  once  more ; 
In  vain  he  bowed  with  listening  ear  — 

The  music  of  that  voice  was  o'er  ; 
And  she  had  laid  her  aching  head 
To  sleep  in  death  upon  her  mossy  bed. 


XXVIII. 

He  found  the  lonely  Indian  girl 

With  one  thin  hand  beneath  her  head, 
While  in  her  dark  hair  gleamed  like  pearl 

The  dew-drops  that  the  night  had  shed. 
And  flowers  lay  withered  at  her  feet, 

And  tall  grass  swayed  and  sighed  around, 
And  moaningly,  and  sadly  sweet, 

The  low  winds  breathed  their  dirge-like  sound. 
And  on  her  brow  a  heavenly  beam 
Fell  through  the  trees,  a  soft  and  silver  stream. 


WALOLULA. A  TALE.  143 


XXIX. 


A  tear  was  in  the  old  man's  eye 

As,  bending  o'er  that  youthful  head, 
He  vainly  listened  for  one  sigh 

To  tell  the  spirit  had  not  fled. 
Poor  Walolula!     She  had  gone 

From  her  fair  island-home  away 

No  more  in  wretchedness  alone 

Amid  its  fading  flowers  to  stray. 

And  she  had  met  the  loved  —  the  dear 

Whom  she  had  mourned,  and  pined  to  death  for  here. 


XXX. 


The  morning  dawned,  and  still  above 

Her  damp,  cold  brow  that  old  man  bent 
Upon  his  face  a  look  of  love 

With  reverence  and  pity  blent. 
She  was  so  lovely,  with  the  light 

That  silver  light  amid  her  hair  — 
And  on  her  lips  a  smile  so  bright, 

It  seemed  that  life  still  lingered  there. 
And  thus  he  watched,  the  long  night  hours, 
A  faded  flower  among  the  faded  flowers. 


144  WALOLULA. A  TALE. 

XXXI. 

And  when  the  sun  with  golden  beams 

Flooded  that  calm,  deep  place  of  rest, 
Sporting  in  light  and  changing  gleams 

Upon  the  river's  tranquil  breast, 
The  old  man  made  her  quiet  grave  — 

There,  just  beneath  that  clump  of  trees, 
Where  the  low  murmur  of  the  wave, 

And  the  deep  sighing  of  the  breeze 
Might  be  her  dirge.     Then,  o'er  her  breast, 
He  placed  the  flowers  she  loved,  and  left  her  to  her  rest. 


THE  DESERTED  WIFE  TO  HER  MOTHER. 


As  the  dove  returns  to  its  sheltered  nest 

With  :  tired  and  drooping  wing, 
So,  mother,  I  come  to  thy  faithful  breast, 

Though  a  broken  heart  I  bring. 
Oh,  long  and  weary  have  been  the  years 

Since  I  crossed  this  threshold  last, 
And  a  veil  of  woven  sighs  and  tears 

Is  shrouding  the  bitter  past. 
13 


146      THE  DESERTED  WIFE  TO  HER  MOTHER. 

Oh,  mother,  we  little  dreamed  that  morn, 

When  the  wreath  was  on  my  brow, 
That  among  the  roses  lurked  a  thorn 

That  would  tear  my  heart  'till  now. 
The  flowers  have  faded,  and  with  their  bloom 

Went  out  the  light  from  my  eye, 
My  thoughts  have  been  only  of  the  tomb  — 

I  have  only  wished  to  die. 


To  die,  sweet  mother,  for  cold  neglect 

Was  turning  my  heart  to  stone, 
And  the  hopes  that  life's  long  day  had  decked 

Were  withering,  one  by  one. 
I  folded  my  hands  upon  my  breast, 

And  with  hopeless,  tearless  eye, 
Looked  forward  alone  to  the  grave's  deep  rest, 

With  a  longing  wish  to  die. 


Oh,  mother,  I  left  thy  warm,  warm  heart 

That  had  ever  been  my  rest, 
I  did  not  even  weep  to  depart, 

For  I  leaned  upon  his  breast. 
'Twas  a  broken  reed,  and  I  found  too  late, 

On  a  false  and  earth-stained  shrine 
My  hopes  were  wreathed  —  that  the  bitter  fate 

Of  a  broken  heart  was  mine. 


THE  DESERTED  WIFE  TO  HER  MOTHER.  147 

You  are  weeping,  mother :  it  must  seem  strange 

To  look  on  your  worshiped  child  — 
To  witness  this  sad  and  fearful  change, 

And  list  to  her  ravings  wild ! 
But  my  heart  is  breaking  —  the  cold,  cold  weight 

Has  pressed  on  its  strings  too  long ; 
The  burden  it  carried  has  been  too  great 

For  a  soul  more  deep  and  strong. 


I  have  come,  dear  mother,  to  die  with  thee  — 

To  sleep  on  thy  gentle  breast, 
And,  blest  by  thy  tones  of  sympathy, 

Go  cheerfully  to  my  rest. 
To  list  to  thy  sweet  and  truthful  prayer, 

As  it  rises  up  to  Heaven, 
For  its  erring  love  and  its  deep  despair 

That  my  soul  may  be  forgiven. 


TO  DICK,  MY  CANARY  BIRD. 


I  never  hear  thy  liquid  notes  — 

Thou  bird  of  golden  wing  — 
But  o'er  my  drooping  spirit  floats 

The  balmy  breath  of  Spring. 
Its  flowers  are  blooming  round  my  path, 

Its  skies  are  o'er  my  head, 
And  on  the  fair,  rejoicing  earth 

Its  velvet  moss  is  tpread. 


TO  DICK,  MY  CANARY  BIRD.  149 

II. 

Tis  true,  a  snowy  robe  doth  fold 

The  land  in  its  embrace  — 
That  strangely  desolate  and  cold 

Is  Nature's  cheerless  face. 
The  murmur  of  the  creeping  streams 

Falls  harshly  on  the  ear : 
Through  leafless  boughs  the  pale  light  gleams, 

Without  a  ray  to  cheer. 


in. 

And  yet,  when  listening  to  thy  tone 

Thou  precious,  fairy  bird  — 
Unheeded  is  the  fierce  wind's  moan, 

The  raging  storm  unheard ;  — 
So  like  the  voices  of  the  Spring 

Is  thy  clear,  tuneful  strain,  — 
So  like  the  joyous  caroling 

Of  loved  ones  come  again. 


IV. 

Thy  wing,  my  bird,  is  like  a  beam 
Of  sunlight  from  the  sky, 

And  brighter  than  the  starry  gleam 
Of  costly  gems,  thy  eye. 
13* 


150  TO  DICK,  MY  CANARY  BIRD. 

Through  the  long  Winter  months,  thy  voice 
Hath  cheered  my  weary  heart, 

And  added  to  my  daily  joys 
More  than  thy  little  part. 


v. 

Thy  tone,  dear  bird,  is  e'er  the  same 

'Mid  clouds  and  sunlight  fair  — 
Like  gayest  flute-notes  breathing  out 

Upon  the  Summer  air ; 
Or  the  sweet  murmur  of  a  stream, 

In  distance  faintly  heard, 
When  stirred  by  wings  of  wandering  winds 

As  light  as  thine,  my  bird. 


THE  BANISHED  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 


My  heart  will  wander  back 
To  thy  lone  pathway,  through  the  cold,  cold  world, 

And  long  to  find  the  track 
By  which  from  its  proud  station  it  was  hurled. 

My  yearning  soul  will  droop 
Beneath  the  chill,  harsh  gaze  of  curious  eyes, 

And  Hope's  tired  wing  will  stoop 
No  more  within  her  starry  realm  to  rise. 


152          THE  BANISHED  WIFE'S  APPEAL. 

Oh  !  it  is  hard  to  take 
My  drear  and  lonely  way  far  from  thy  side  - 

The  golden  chain  to  break 
That  bound  my  fate  to  thine,  a  happy  bride. 

Dost  thou  remember  now 
The  shadowy  elm  close  by  that  lowly  cot, 

Where  to  thy  love's  deep  vow 
I  listened  tremblingly,  and  doubted  not  ? 


Thou  dost  remember  !     Years 
Have  passed  away  since  then,  and  eyes  of  love,- 

Bedewed  with  anxious  tears, 
My  blooming  youth  that  fondly  watched  above, 

Are  closed  in  death.     The  breast 
Whose  painful  throbbings  were  for  me  alone 

Is  hushed  to  peaceful  rest  — 
The  freed  soul  to  its  heavenly  home  hath  gone. 


And  I  am  left  to  look 
My  last  upon  thy  loved  and  cherished  face ! 

Oh !  can  I  ever  brook 
The  world's  cold  snter,  or  from  my  heart  erase 

The  bright  and  happy  past  ? 
Kind  death !     My  breaking  heart  invokes  thy  gloom ! 

Around  it  gently  cast 
The  silent,  grateful  shadow  of  the  tomb ! 


LINES 


Not  on  my  heart  would  I  too  brightly  trace 
The  features  of  thy  calm  and  truthful  face  ; 
Nor  fold  too  closely  in  its  deepest  cell 
The  holy  gush  of  Love's  own  music-swell. 
The  past  hath  taught  a  lesson  —  that  the  flowers 
Whose  bloom  is  fairest  in  the  earth's  fair  bowers 
Oft  fade  the  soonest ;  that  the  sky  whose  beam 
Flings  o'er  our  path  the  radiance  of  a  dream 
May  ere  long  wear  a  shade  of  deepest  gloom, 
Whose  blackness  whispers  of  the  rayless  tomb. 


154  LINES. 

And  yet  a  shadow  sleeps  upon  the  years 
Of  past  experience,  with  their  sighs  and  tears, 
And  reaching  to  the  present,  only  lies 
Like  gauzy  clouds  across  the  azure  skies,  — 
Subduing  but  not  lessening  the  pure  light 

• 

That  throws  across  my  way  its  radiance  bright. 

n. 

There  was  a  murmur  in  the  days  by-gone, 

Cheering  my  spirit  in  its  journey  on  ; 

There  was  a  hand  that  gently  led  along, 

Through  thornless  paths,  beneath  the  breath  of  song. 

But  music  melted  into  night  away, 

On  which  it  seemed  would  never  dawn  the  day. 

Time  hath  a  healing  power.     The  light  came  back 

To  gleam  in  glory  o'er  my  darkened  track, 

And  flowers  sprung  up  with  softly  beaming  eyes, 

Whispering  like  spirits  from  the  far-off  skies, 

And  through  the  forest,  on  the  balmy  air, 

Flitted  the  wild  birds,  musical  and  fair  ; 

And  a  low  voice  upon  the  breezes  swept, 

And  gentle  music  to  my  heart-strings  crept, 

And  o'er  my  brow  a  soft  breath  passed  along 

With  the  sweet  murmurs  of  the  olden  song. 

There  may  be  clouds  in  distance,  but  my  soul, 

Fearing  no  danger,  yields  to  thy  control ; 

Should  darkness  shroud  again  this  heart  of  mine, 

'Twill  borrow  light  and  sunshine  but  from  thine. 


THE  BREATH  OF  SPRING. 


Breath  of  the  Spring-wind,  come  ! 

Many  a  heart  is  pining ; 
And  many  a  darkened  home  — 

Whose  star  has  been  declining  — 
Longs  for  thy  tuneful  voice, 

To  breathe  of  hope  and  gladness, 
To  bid  the  soul  rejoice 

That  hath  known  but  grief  and  sadness. 


156  THE  BREATH  OF  SPRING. 

Come  with  thy  viewless  wings, 

Sweeping  across  the  hills, 
Loosing  the  ice-bound  springs, 

Waking  the  sleeping  rills, 
Rippling  the  lake's  calm  breast 

Where  the  blue  heavens  repose, 
And  from  its  quiet  rest 

Starting  the  sweet-briar  rose. 


Come  to  our  home  and  hearts  ! 

For  in  thy  warm,  bright  train, 
Sunlight  in  beauty  starts, 

Flooding  the  earth  again. 
Breathe  out  upon  the  vale ! 

Breathe  upon  hill  and  stream ! 
And  the  earth,  now  cold  and  pale, 

In  a  new  birth  shall  beam. 


THE  HOPES  OF  EARTH. 


How  soon  the  dreams  of  earth  depart ! 

Its  hopes  —  oh !  \vhat  are  they ! 
How  sadly  from  the  doting  heart 

The}'  melt  and  fade  away  ! 
Like  the  soft  cloud  that  swiftly  floats 

Across  the  Summer  sky, 
Like  dew  departing  in  the  sun, 

Earth's  fairest  visions  die. 
14 


158  THE  HOPES  OF  EARTH. 

The  heart  —  'tis  strange  what  feelings  move- 
Its  tender,  hidden  strings  — 

How  strong  the  cord  that  earthly  love 
Around  its  weakness  flings. 

'Tis  well,  perhaps,  that  all  its^hopes 
Thus  rudely  should  be  riven, 

That  we  may  seek  a  purer  clime, 
A  brighter  home  in  heaven. 


'Tis  well !     But  oh,  how  hard  to  bow 

In  meek  and  holy  trust, 
When  pallid  cheek  and  marble  brow 

Are  laid  beneath  the  dust !  — 
When  from  the  fond  and  yearning  breast 

Is  coldly  borne  away 
The  worshiped  one  —  too  good  and  pure 

In  this  dark  world  to  stay. 


THE   WOODS. 


The  woods  —  who  does  not  love  the  woods, 

With  their  deep,  quiet  shade,  — 
The  gentle  flowers  that  nod  and  smile 

Through^every  mossy  glade  ?  — 
The  stream~that  winds  among  the  trees, 

With  sunbeams  on  its  breast,  — 
The  dripping  rocks,  the  emerald  banks, 

The  deep^and  shadowy  rest. 


160  THE  WOODS. 

The  woods  —  who  does  not  love  to  dream 

The  bright  Spring  hours  away 
Among  their  shades,  while  perfume  comes 

Upon  the  wings  of  May  ? — 
With  cheek  upon  the  mossy  bed, 

Bedecked  with  flowerets  bright, 
And  through  the  curtain  overhead, 

Creeping  the  golden  light ! 


The  forest  trees  —  how  proudly  reach 

Their  tall  boughs  toward  the  sky, 
While  in  their  shadows,  half  asleep, 

The  modest  wild  flowers  lie ! 
The  music  of  the  sighing  winds 

Their  clustering  leaves  among, 
Is  like  the  voices  of  the  loved  — 

Sweet,  and  remembered  long. 


The  woods  —  the  dim,  old,  shady  woods  — 

Through  the  long  Summer  hours 
How  sweet  to  tread  their  quiet  paths, 

To  pluck  their  bright-eyed  flowers !  — 
To  catch  the  gleam  of  golden  wings — 

Of  timid,  starry  eyes  — 
And  listen,  on  the  balmy  air, 

The  liquid  notes  that  rise! 


THK    WOODS.  161 


The  beautiful  —  the  verdant  woods  ! 

Oh  !  what  a  dreamy  spell 
Around  the  soul  their  beauty  throws, 

And  how  the  heart  will  swell 
With  love,  and  joy,  and  gratitude, 

As  voices  mingle  there  — 
Tuning  its  strings  to  melody, 

And  hushing  every  care. 


TO  A  LOCK  OF  HAIR, 


Sweet  lock  of  hair  !     Thou  call'st  to  Memory's  eye 

A  form  —  a  face  —  that  long  since  passed  away  ; 
Thou  breathest  with  a  whisper  and  a  sigh. 

Like  Summer  breezes  'mid  the  flowers  at  play. 
The  tale  thou  tellest  is  so  full  of  sadness  — 

So  fraught  with  sorrow  —  yet  so  mild  and  meek  — 
Oh,  it  is  dearer  far  than  tones  of  gladness, — 

Its  trembling  words  a  sweeter  music  speak. 


TO    A  LOCK   OF  HAIR.  163 

II. 

Bright  lock  of  hair !     Thou  com'st  before  me  now, 

Like  the  fond  smile  that  beamed  within  her  eye  — 
The  pure,  clear  light  that  lay  upon  her  brow, 

And  her  own  voice  that  trembled  softly  by. 
I  clasp  again  that  fair  and  gentle  hand : 

Around  my  neck  those  arms  again  entwine, 
And,  oh  !  in  deepest  joy,  again  I  stand 

By  thy  blest  side,  my  sainted  Caroline ! 

in. 

A  brief,  a  happy  day  was  thine,  my  friend, 

The  flowers  were  thornless  in  thy  sunny  path, 
And  oh  !  we  dreamed  not  that  thy  course  would  end 

So  soon,  among  the  gloomy  shades  of  death ;  — 
That  thus  in  Youth's  bright  morn,  and  Hope's  glad  day, 

When  mirth  and  pleasure  filled  each  passing  hour, 
Thou  from  our  midst  would  fade,  and  pass  away, 

And  to  its  rest  thy  blissful  spirit- soar. 

IV. 

In  lovely  June,  they  made  thy  lowly  bed 

Within  the  green  and  blooming  earth's  cold  breast, 
And  roses  blossomed  o'er  thy  gentle  head, 

And  bright  birds  sang  above  thy  place  of  rest. 
'T  were  meet  that  such  thy  requiem  should  be  — 

That  skies  all  cloudless  o'er  thy  grave  should  shine, 
And  flowerets  beautiful  bloom  fresh  and  free, 

For  thou  wert  pure  like  them,  my  Caroline ! 


FLOWERS  ON  THE    GRAVE. 


'Tis  well  to  lay  them  here  — 

The  beautiful,  fair  flowers ; 
To  cull  with  sigh  and  tear 

From  Nature's  sweetest  bowers, 
The  buds  that  droop  and  die 

Beneath  the  softest  breath ; 
'Tis  well  that  they  should  lie, 

A  gentle  type  of  death. 


FLOWERS    ON   THE    GRAVE.  165 

How  like  the  bright,  fair  one 

Who  lies  in  dreamless  rest  — 
Ere  to  her  meek,  pure  brow 

The  thorns  were  rudely  prest ! 
Ere  to  her  loving  eye 

The  dim,  deep  shadow  crept ; 
And  the  fond,  yearning  heart, 

In  darkness  coldly  slept. 


How  peaceful  is  her  sleep 

Beneath  these  drooping  flowers, 
Where  softest  whispers  creep 

Through  Summer's  dreamy  hours  ! 
Where  lulling  music  steals 

On  Love's  own  quiet  breath, 
And  naught  but  Beauty  haunts 

The  gentle  scene  of  death ! 


Speak  softly  as  ye  bow 

To  press  the  turf  that  lies 
Above  her  icy  brow  — 

Her  dim  and  shrouded  eyes ; 
And  softly  lay  the  buds 

Of  beauty  o'er  her  head  — 
As  fair,  as  frail  as  she, 

The  young,  the  lovely  dead. 


DIRGE  FOR  THE  BEAUTIFUL. 


Softly,  peacefully, 

Lay  her  to  rest ! 
Place  the  turf  lightly 

On  her  young  breast ! 
Gently,  solemnly, 

Bend  o'er  the  bed 
Where  ye  have  pillowed 

Thus  early  her  head ! 


DIRGE  FOR  THE   BEAUTIFUL.  167 

II. 

Plant  a  young  willow 

Close  by  her  grave  ; 
Let  its  long  branches 

Soothingly  wave  ! 
Twine  a  sweet  rose-tree 

Over  the  tomb, 
Sprinkle  fresh  buds  there  — 

Beauty  and  bloom ! 


in. 

Let  a  bright  fountain, 

Limpid  and  clear, 
Murmur  its  music 

Ceaselessly  near ;  — 
Scatter  the  diamonds 

Where  the  loved  lies, 
Brilliant  and  starry 

Like  angels'  eyes  ! 


IV. 


There  shall  the  bright  birds 
On  golden  wing  — 

Lingering  ever  — 

Their  sweet  notes  sing. 


DIRGE  FOR    THE   BEAUTIFUL. 

There  shall  the  soft  breeze 

Pensively  sigh, 
Bearing  rich  fragrance 

And  melody  by. 


v. 

Lay  the  sod  lightly 

Over  her  breast ! 
Calm  be  her  slumbers, 

Peaceful  her  rest ! 
Beautiful,  lovely, 

She  was  but  given, 
A  fair  bud  to  earth, 

To  blossom  in  Heaven ! 


YC   16130 


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